Unconditional
by Mrs.LupinBlackSnapeFaraBoromir
Summary: Arthur explains the way he loves Colonial Alfred and we may observe how that love evolves over time. A foreshadowing to what we know as "USUK." Rating may change if continued. T for vulgar language, insinuated sex, and drug usage. CHAPTER 40 UPDATE
1. Chapter 1

**A forshadowing to what we all know as "USUK." Arthur explains the kind of love he holds for Alfred.**

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Young Alfred sat in the study of his large New England home. The open window let cool instances of air blow in, gently pushing the fringe of his hair to his forehead, tickling his brow. The setting summer's sun shown in, giving the boy almost an angelic glow as he turned the pages of a dusty, sun-bleached, leather bound book. To a grown man, it would be easy to hold the book to his face, but to the boy, it proved difficult. So instead, he sat with his head bowed to read the book spread on his lap. He followed the too long sentences with his small, delicate finger, mumbling the words quietly to himself. His brow remained furrowed in either a lack of understanding, frustration, or a perfectly understandable combination of both. His scraped and bruised legs hung from the plush sofa, hardly reaching the elaborate area rug underneath.

Alfred looked up from the yellowed pages to listen to his front door close and the clacking of footsteps on the wood flooring. Slightly flustered, he rolled his pink lips inwards and faced the book again as the steps drew near, in an attempt to appear productive. The door opened gently, and in a smooth, gentle voice, a man called to the youth.

"Alfred?"

He stepped fully into the room, leaving to door ajar. Alfred could see the feet of his highly polished field boots make their way toward him. His eyes jumped frantically across the page from sentence to sentence, in an effort to suddenly read the entire book at once, though he wasn't sure exactly why he felt the need to consume so much useless knowledge so abruptly.

"Alfred," the man started in a reprimanding tone, coming to a halt in front of the boy. "It's rude not to acknowledge someone's presence when they enter a room."

Alfred slowly looked up through his parted hair that had fallen into his face. His thumbs gently taped to corners of the book.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kirkland."

Above him, a slim, fair haired man smiled down at him, his gloved hands on his hips. The breeze from the window rolled down his loose, white cotton shirt as he raised a hand to wipe the trails of sweat off his neck and collar bone.

"I think I'll find room in my heart to forgive you this time, lad. After all, I can't be too mad. I admire a boy who studies."

A wave of relief washed over Alfred. He lifted his chin, now feeling less panicked that the other wasn't upset at him, and smiled back. The man stepped over and sat down next to the boy, removing his gloves and sitting them to the side. He threw an arm around Alfred, crossing his legs, and pulling the younger to his side.

"How are you? I hope you've eaten something today."

Alfred leaned his head against the shoulder of the other, nodding. The room no longer smelt like a tomb of dust and ancient things, but of horse and tobacco. He turned his head into the other's arm to inhale more of the smell he had begun to enjoy so much. The man laughed.

"What in God's name are you doing, boy?"

He raised a thick eyebrow, curious at Alfred's behaviour. Alfred looked up, grinning, the light catching his eyes just right so they let off a radiant sparkle.

"You smell good."

Taken aback by his answer, the man gave a humoured smile.

"You fancy the smell of sweat and horse?"

Not sure if he should be ashamed or smile too, Alfred merely nodded.

"I'm sorry, Mr.-"

"Ah ah, Master Alfred," the other hushed, "no need to apologize. That's you're opinion. Who am I to correct you? Besides, I rather smell good to you then no one at all."

He gave the boy a soft, reassuring smile before he reached out a slender hand and grasped the book resting on Alfred's lap.

"You haven't gotten very far, Alfred."

He frowned as he examined the progress made in the book.

"Are you alright, lad? You aren't talking very much. You're not ill, are you?"

The man set the book aside and pulled the youth's head toward him. He pressed his lips gently to the other's forehead. Alfred squirmed and pushed away.

"Ew! That's gross, Mr. Kirkland!"

Alfred sat back from his care taker, grinning deviously at him. The elder's green eyes widened at the child's sudden outburst. Both relieved and slightly flustered, the man closed his eyes, sighing, running his fingers back through his hair, the copious amounts sweat keeping it slicked back.

"I was only trying to feel for a fever, Alfred."

"You _kissed_ me!"

"I did not."

The Englishman sighed once again, opening an eye to catch a glimpse of the giggling boy. Within seconds, any gentleman-like behaviour he would have enforced upon himself or any of his own children vanished as he playfully threw himself at Alfred. The boy laughed as he tried to push the man away. The elder growled and nipped lightly at the boy's face before pulling up his white blouse to blow a wet raspberry on the soft skinned belly. Alfred let out a squeal of laughter, throwing his head back and kicking his short legs uselessly.

"Ah! Mr. Kirkland! S-Stop!" He managed through his hysterics.

The man smirked down at the squirming boy before sitting up, ruffling the other's previously combed hair. The pleasure drained from Alfred's face as he reached up to feel his hair. The man noted the boy's distressed expression.

"What's wrong, lad? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Alfred stuck out his bottom lip, furrowing his brow in what appeared to be confusion.

:"Why did you mess up my hair when you always tell me not to mess it up?"

The Brit gave Alfred a warm smile.

"It's alright, Alfred. It's just you and I right now, and it's good to have some fun sometimes, yeah? But I can fix it if you'd like-"

"No! I like it like this."

The boy's usual canny, charismatic smirk appeared on his young face.

"Can I untuck my shirt too?"

The elder looked down at the excited boy, pondering weather or not to let him become so disheveled.

"Sure…just this once."

Alfred threw his arms around his guardian's neck before pulling his shirt tails rather violently out of his navy blue shorts. He skipped to the mirror, admiring his clothing with pride.

"Much better!"

He beamed at his superior who smiled back weakly.

"Just don't expect to be walking about like this, Alfred. It's not proper."

The boy ignored the other, running to hug him again.

"I love you!"

The Englishman was knocked back on the sofa from the force Alfred tackled him with.

"Ah! Do you?"

"Yes! With all my heart!"

The man hugged the youth back.

"That's a lot of heart, lad."

"I know. Mr. Kirkland?"

Alfred looked up at the man with a curious expression.

"Yes, lad?"

"Do you love me 'conditionally'?"

The other pulled the boy back to look at him fully, giving him an equally curious visage.

"What would make you say that?"

The boy shrugged.

"I don't know. I read it today. I didn't understand it."

The Brit pulled the other close to himself.

"Shall I explain it then?"

Alfred nodded.

"Well, boy, conditional love is when you truly love something, but if it changes, even in the slightest way, you may not love it anymore."

"Oh. So like your stew!"

The man paused.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you used to make it really good and I really, really liked it, but then you changed something and now it tastes gross and it's all mushy and I hate it."

He paused again.

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's icky."

The man coughed.

"Oh, well, similar to that maybe, yes…"

The boy shifted in the strong, sticky arms.

"So do you love me conditionally?"

"No, no, Alfred, not conditionally. I love you unconditionally."

"What's that mean?"

"That means that no matter what happens, no matter what you do, I could never stop loving you, even if I tried. You may not be perfect Alfred, and you're growing up, changing, and turning into a smart young man, but through that all, I'm not ever going to not love you."

"Really?"

"With all my heart."

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

Alfred grinned, squeezing the Englishman into a tight hug. The man smiled back, embracing the young boy in his arms, burying his face in the small shoulder.

By now, the sun had completely set. Lightning bugs hovered above the wild grasses and flowers as moths flapped around the glass incased candles in the room the two were in, loving the light until it burned them.

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** I can't decide if I should continue on this idea. PLEASE REVIEW. I'd _LOVE_ to hear your opinions!**


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey! Go already!"

A small, blond boy, donned in breeches and a riding coat, flapped his short legs on the sides of his hairy, grey pony. Refusing to canter, the pony merely stuck his nose out and braced against the boy, trotting along at a blistering speed on a dirt path between fields of tall green grass swaying in the breeze. The child turned his head, checking the road behind him. He looked ahead, posting at an abnormally fast pace. Clenching his teeth, he turned his toe out and jabbed the pony roughly in the sides. Letting out a displeased buck, his pony finally broke into a canter. The boy sat up, after losing his balance, causing him to fall onto the neck in front of him, laughing.

"Good boy! Now go faster!"

He urged the pony onward again, getting into an unorganized half seat. The world blistered by in a blur as he managed his unwilling steed into a gallop. The wind blew the boy's hair back, giving him a sense of freedom and adventure. He put the reins in one hand, reaching up to unbutton his hot jacket, slipping it off his shoulder, then off the other. The boy smiled in relief as the rush of air made contact with his sweaty body the coat was sheltering. In an attempt to get rid of it, he threw it to the side of his galloping pony. In response to the thrown coat, the pony spooked, ducking to the side, and catching the young child off guard. The boy fell over the unshorn, grey shoulder of his pony, striking the hard, dirt road on his shoulder and stomach. He immediately rolled onto his back, dirt in his mouth, lying still for a moment before looking up, only to see his pony bolting off down the path. After a series of purring noises, attempting to get the dirt out of his mouth, he managed to stand up.

"Ow."

The boy sucked in air through his teeth, squeezing his blue eyes shut. His arm and side hurt from the accidental dismount. Looking forward, he came to realize that he'd have to catch his mount, or Mr. Kirkland would be furious with him, if not already. He began to jog ahead, fighting back tears forming in his eyes.

"Proper gentlemen don't cry."

While he was still upset at Mr. Kirkland, he couldn't stand to disappoint him further by not growing up to his "full potential as a gentleman." It wasn't that he hated his guardian, even though he told him so. He hated that Mr. Kirkland bossed him around, and that he took his allowances, but never truly hated. When they went for a ride, the older man informed the boy that he would start administering him more from his own home, rather than coming to visit so often. In an angered haze, the youth took off, desperate to get away from the other and upset him.

The short legs padded up along the trail, beads of sweat running down the dirt covered face and neck. The hot sun beat down upon the Earth, blinding all creatures moving in it's direction with golden rays of light. The bees buzzed nearby, searching for untouched flowers, while over the small rise of land, the distant figure of the pony and another figure stood. The boy broke into a sprint, waving his hands.

"Hey! That's my pony! That's my pony!"

He approached the man, spooking his pony from behind. The man held onto the reins, making soft, calming noises to settle the small pony's scare. He turned his head and gave the boy a devious smirk, looking him up and down with his clear blue eyes.

"Are you this little pony's rider?"

The stranger asked in a smooth, foreign accent the child had never come across before. The boy looked up at the man, panting slightly, nodding to confirm his ownership. The tall, lean man chuckled, gazing down at the dirt covered boy.

"It looks like you had trouble keeping him under control, non?"

The brows of the child furrowed.

"No I didn't! He just got scared, that's all…"

The man smiled again, brushing his long, golden strands of hair out of his handsome, angular face.

"What is your name, cher?"

"Alfred. What's yours?"

The foreigner smiled at the child's innocence.

"Francis."

The man examined his own hand with an appraising look.

"Are you lost, young Alfred?"

"No, I can find my way back by myself."

"Ah, I see. Listen, mon cher."

The finely dressed man looked at the youth, smiling slightly.

"I'm a friend of you fathers, but don't tell him I'm here. It's a surprise."

The boy's eyes widened.

"Really? That's brilliant! But I don't think he enjoys surprises so much…he told me so."

The man pulled the child forward into a one armed embrace, smiling down at him.

"Don't worry, Alfred. Your father and I go long back. We understand each other. Speaking of which…Where is he? You are all by yourself?"

The boy nodded, feeling awkward in the sudden closeness to his new acquaintance.

"He was being mean, so I ran away."

"Oh?"

The man raised a plucked eyebrow, tilting his head in an interested manner.

"You should be more careful next time. Little boy's can get hurt and lost in this world. It's lucky you only accomplished one and had a good friend like me to catch your cheeky pony."

The boy tilted his head, not understanding what the man meant.

"You're my good friend?"

The man smiled softly, and to the trained eye, a glint of his deceitfulness could be seen.

"Of course, young Alfred."

He threw the reins over the bored pony's head.

"Do you need a leg up, cher?"

"No, I can do it myself."

The child walked to the side of his mount and lifted his short leg, and climbed gracelessly into the saddle. The man, still holding the reins, looked at the boy, the sun catching his figure, giving him a blinding glow.

"I have a feeling we will be seeing more of each other soon, Alfred. I look forward to it."

The boy nodded automatically, not knowing exactly what the man meant. A long fingered hand stroked the short, grey neck of the child's pony.

"Ride safely, and don't mention our meeting to your father."

The man received another nod. He released the reins to allow the boy to kick his pony forward. He watched as the two trotted off and an unsettling pace.

"Au revoir, Alfred!"

The man waved to the pair.

"Ask, don't tell, Alfred! He will go if you ask nicely!

The boy looked back at the blurred figure, hearing his final words. He pulled back on the reins, in an attempt to slow the quick trot down. Sitting, he squeezed his calf; one leg behind the girth like Mr. Kirkland had showed him on so many occasions. To his surprise, he felt the shoulders under him rise up into a canter. He reached a hand down to pat the sweat covered neck of his pony then wave to the odd man behind him, heading back home to a more than furious Englishman.

The sun was slowly nestling itself behind the thick rows of trees, taking it's rays of happy light with it. The man walked casually along the road in his highly polished boots. His tailored coat blew gently in the cooling breeze as he shielded his blue eyes from the harshness of the setting sun. Up ahead a group of men emerged from the woods on horseback, clad in exuberant military uniforms. They greeted the man on foot, leading up a rider-less horse for him to mount. The man, once on the bay animal, smiled at his men.

"Britain's weakness lies in the boy, as expected. Prepare my men and inform the Natives that bloodshed is on all of our horizons."


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur Kirkland sat on the crimson cushions of the carriage he was riding in, bumping along the uneven road. He leaned with an arm against the unsteady, furnished wall, holding a lit cigarette that emitted grey smoke from the burning tip. On his lap, he sorted and read through a series of documents from his son. He furrowed his brow, taking a particularly long drag from his fag as he read about reports of aggressive French military forces. Arthur had just arrived in America after a long leave to take care of problems at home. Those problems eventually led him back to America, all thanks to a certain Francis Bonnefoy.

He sighed, letting the smoke from his lungs blow out through his nostrils, as he raised a hand to rub his tired, green eyes. He felt worn out and miserable. His head ached when he thought about the extra mouths he had to feed now that he had taken custody of Francis' and that Spaniard, Antonio's children.

He leaned forward to look out the window. The world outside was grey and dreary, and appeared even more so as the sky darkened with nightfall. The dirt road was wet and slippery with rain, and the trees dripped collected water droplets from their sagging leaves. The Englishman frowned, and noted that his sour mood seemed to almost worsen. He sat back and stared at the empty seat in front of him blankly. He couldn't wait to get to his son's house. He knew that if there was one thing in this god forsaken world that could make him laugh and smile, it was certainly Alfred. Just thinking about the boy's cheeky, mischievous grin mad the man smile inwardly to himself. And not only would he be in good company, he'd finally be in solid ground that didn't sway or bump about. He was thankful for that.

It took what seemed like ages to the exhausted man to finally reach his destination. He yawned, collecting all his papers into a box, and climbed out of the stuffy carriage. Smoke rose from one of the many chimneys on the large house before him. He stretched his body upward, trying to relive himself of the pains of traveling. He followed the men, who were carrying his luggage, to the front door.

"Just leave it here, yeah? I'll take care of it."

The carriage men obeyed and bided Arthur farewell as he rapped his knuckles on the wood door. He waited patiently for it to open.

Nothing.

He tried again, his willingness to wait dwindling quickly. He reached up to knock once more, when he heard footsteps from behind the barrier and locks turning. He put his fist down and folded his hands behind his back, deciding that it would appear stupid with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. The door cracked open and a blue eye peered through. Arthur couldn't suppress his large grin any longer.

"Hullo, lad."

The door opened fully, and, to Arthur's surprise, the boy he remembered didn't stand, beaming up at him or run over to him to hug his waist. Instead, a tall youth with a firm jaw and determined eyes stared back at him expressionlessly. He had his "what used to be white" shirt sleeves rolled up between his elbow and shoulder, exposing his toned, tanned arms. The way his eyebrows were set, gave him an unfaltering, and even an intimidating presence. He looked Arthur up and down once before dropping his arm and turning around to walk away from the door, leaving it wide open. Confused and a tad bit concerned, the other followed him into the house, pulling his bags in with him.

"Aren't you going to greet me, Alfred?"

He sat his luggage down and walked into the next room. The house was dimly lit except for the fire burning in the living room. A feeling of emptiness overtook Arthur as he stepped through the house. He wasn't sure why he didn't expect that Alfred had grown. He had been gone for years, if anything he _hoped_ that he had grown. What he didn't foresee was the sudden coldness the boy had shown him. Arthur entered the room Alfred sat in. The light from the fire flickered on the boy's features and cast eerie shadows on the dark walls. Alfred spoke suddenly, his voice now deep and masculine from aging.

"You can leave. I don't need any help with the French. I can handle them on my own."

Arthur paused. This is certainly _not_ what he imagined to hear. His heart sank at the prospects of enjoying some time with his son, not that he came to visit on holiday, but rather to fight a war. He cleared his throat, picking up his authoritative tone, figuring that if Alfred was going to act cold towards him, he could speak to him as he pleased.

"Well, unfortunately, Alfred, I _am_ here to fight the French, as it is my war-"

"Yeah? Well, what if I told you it was my war too?

Alfred stood, raising his voice, silencing the astonished Englishman.

"I know what you're going to say. That you'll take care of it and I should be a 'good little boy.' Well, I'm not a little boy anymore! I'm America! And I can defend myself without you!"

Alfred's feet were placed firmly apart on the floor; a smoldering, impassioned expression covered his young face, giving off a powerful effect. Arthur merely stood before him, mouth hanging open slightly, as he was taken aback by Alfred's nerve to interrupt and talk back to a superior. He began to speak, but was stopped again.

"And don't come here to baby me, because I don't need that."

Alfred stormed forward, past Arthur.

"Where are you going?"

Arthur went to follow the distressed boy who was heading to the side door. Alfred turned, holding the door open, giving the other a defiant glare.

"To smoke."

Arthur furrowed his brow.

"Alfred, you're not allowed to smoke at such a young age."

"Why don't you just fuck off."

The door slammed behind the boy, leaving the Englishman standing in the dark house, alone, dumbfounded, and more importantly, confused. He stared at the door where Alfred had just been ten seconds ago, not knowing what he had done to receive such a treatment. It was almost as if his heart had sunk to the pit of his stomach, leaving him with nothing; nothing to hold onto or cherish anymore, as silly as it sounded.

After many long seconds, Arthur slowly made his way back to the front hall, where he left his belongings, to heave them up the stairs. It had been a long day, and he expected more extraneously lengthy ones to follow in the near future. He sighed as he finally pulled his luggage into a spare room, one that had not been dusted recently. Sitting down on the bed, kicking off his shoes, the man removed his coat and started to lazily unbutton his shirt with one hand, tilting his head back, his tired eyes closing.

"God, I need a drink."

He made a mental note to have a strong glass of something the next day, not that that would be a hassle to remember.

He shrugged off his shirt, shivering as the cool air in the house touched his bare skin. Arthur stood, pulling back the covers, not even bothering to get into proper sleepwear, and climbed into the bed, turning onto his side in an attempt to become comfortable. He heard the door close downstairs and a loud cough. The man tried to ignore it, but failed as his mind swirled in a disarray of thoughts and concerns.

"It's not like I wasn't rebellious at his age or smoke. Hell, I _still_ smoke."

Arthur thought, trying to reason with himself. He rolled onto his back, pressure building in his head. To Arthur, his son's behaviour was inexcusable, and he mentally kicked himself for not beating the boy when he first opened his foul mouth. He didn't have time or energy to reprimand Alfred properly, but after he finished with the French, he promised himself not let the boy's mistreating actions go on any longer. He'd stop Alfred before he got out of hand.

He just needs a good slap in the mouth

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	4. Chapter 4

"That goddamn bastard…"

Arthur Kirkland stomped through the streets of Boston, muttering curses under his breath. His black, polished boots clicked along as he prowled for a certain someone. Someone who had defied him, and was now going to pay.

He heard obnoxious laughter as he rounded the street corner. Sure enough, there he stood, that "someone," leaning casually up against the building he stood in front of. A small crowd of people surrounded him as he was basking in a satisfying glory. He smiled, flashing the onlookers white teeth and running his fingers through his dark blond hair. His eyes twinkled in the suns rays, giving him a charismatic glow. His clothes were loose, and from Arthur's perspective, his shirt was more than revealing of his toned chest. The red-coated Englishman moved toward the crowd, shouting.

"Goddamn it, Alfred!"

Heads from the gathering turned to see a more than upset Brit heading toward them with clenched teeth and fists. They all parted, allowing a path for the fuming man. Alfred, who had now looked over to see the very familiar character, stood up straight. He furrowed his eyebrows and parted his feet, standing firm and determined as the other reached him. Now standing within inches of each other, the shorter of the two huffed.

"When I said 'unload my tea,' I didn't mean into the harbour."

The other smirked down at the disgruntled man.

"Who said it was me?"

"Don't you _dare_ play games with me! I know for a fucking fact that you were the one who did it!"

Arthur glared wildly at Alfred, who, in return, closed his eyes and casually brushed his hair back.

"Relax, Arthur. Who the hell gives a damn about some stupid tea any- "

Alfred was cut short when she felt a sharp pain on his cheek. Astonished, he stared at the heated man before him. Raising a hand slowly to his face, he spoke in a quite voice.

"Did- did you just _hit_ me?"

"I was reprimanding you for being absolutely ridiculous."

"You _hit_ me!"

Alfred's voice grew louder, starting a series of murmurs among the crowd. He looked at Arthur with wide eyes, leaning back.

"You hit me! A Brit just hit me!"

Alfred shouted to the gathering and others began looking out their windows and peering out their shop doors.

"He hit me! He hit me!"

Arthur, dumbfounded, looked around him and watched as the other people's faces turned sour and started to hear jeers pointed toward him. Alfred and his people made rude gestures at him as they started to move away from the Englishman, marching down the street, more people joining the rebellion.

And Arthur stood, watching the mass migrate from him. His heart fell to the pit of his stomach. He didn't wish to hurt his son. He didn't wish to, but sometimes wishes fail to come true.

**Boston Tea Party and Boston Massacre. Hope you enjoyed! Please REVIEW. There is more to come.**


	5. Chapter 5

"_We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor_."

Arthur's hands trembled, gripping the document so it crinkled under his tightening hold. His angry eyes stared at the words, his face contorted in an ugly display. His green eyes flicked back up to read a sickening line:

"_We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."_

He threw the displeasing paper to the side of him in disgust.

"Git."

He could feel his heart pound in his chest as he sat in silence. He looked over at the document once again, clenching his teeth and letting out an uneasy breath.

"Fucking little bastard."

From his seat, he could see the long list of complaints written in small, black print. He lowered his head to bury his hot face into his shaking hands. His mind raced.

He'd been at war with his son for a year. He knew Alfred wanted his freedom desperately, but Arthur wouldn't and couldn't allow it. The Englishman couldn't help but feel somewhat humiliated. His own son loathed and despised him. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't going to allow a hard-headed boy make a fool out of him for the rest of the world to see. Arthur had bigger and badder enemies to face and hated to risk losing Alfred.

A quiet knock at the door brought Arthur back to reality and remember where he was. He looked up, trying to collect himself.

"Erm, yes? Come in."

The dark brown, wooden door opened slowly. A timid looking boy stepped in, carrying a tray of tea, giving the man a shy smile. He sat the silver tray down on the side table next to Arthur.

"I- I brought you some tea, Mr. Kirkland…"

His voice trailed of into an incoherent whisper, something that irritated Arthur to no end. The man sighed, rolling his eyes to look at the scrawny boy.

"Speak up, Matthew. If you mutter, there is no way I can hear you."

Matthew flinched at his guardian's harsh tone, fumbling with the tea cups. He lowered his head so waved, blond hair shielded his nervous face from the other's disapproving gaze.

"Here- Here you go, sir."

He tried his best to speak up as he handed the Englishman a cup of tea he filled too much, causing his motions to slosh it out of the cup and on the carpeted floor. Arthur took the cup.

"Clumsy. Clean it up. I'm sick and tired of your foolishness."

He sipped the tea as Matthew hurried off to find the appropriate cleaning materials, apologizing franticly. Arthur couldn't help but think that if the boy was more like Alfred, incidents like this wouldn't happen as much. No. Alfred is the prominent source of his stress. He tried to disallow himself to prefer Alfred over Matthew. After all, Matthew was quiet, even if he has trouble speaking up, but he didn't yell or ever get hostile like his brother. Matthew did what he was told, without challenging authority and he listened and paid attention to the tiny details; something Alfred was never able to do.

Arthur raised the tea cup to his lips, as his mind wandered again. But Alfred also knew how to shoot straight and was strong. The Englishman liked to think that Alfred was like him. The man cracked a smile at what would have made him outrageously angry only moments ago. Alfred was always independent and insisted he do everything by himself. He had a sense of all knowing, and that the idea of being taught to do something was shameful. When Arthur first let Alfred ride his pony, the boy got thrown trying to jump a fence, deciding that he knew how and it was easy. Arthur let out a small chuckle. Alfred always learned his lessons the hard way.

He sat down the cup of tea, the frown returning to his face. No, these were Alfred's flaws. Arthur wouldn't stand to be mistreated any longer by his arrogant son.

Matthew entered again with his head bowed, immediately kneeling to the floor to clean up the tea. Arthur reached over to pat the boy's head, but quickly retracted his hand in disgust as he remembered how Matthew's hair reminded him of a certain Frenchman's. He stood, bending down to snatch up the document lying on the floor.

"I'm leaving, boy. I don't know when I'll return."

Matthew looked up, nodding automatically, his mouth trying to form words to bid his father farewell.

Arthur turned and swept out of the room, on his way to America.

**Right. I brought Canada in because I feel like his relationship with Arthur is remarkably different from what Arthur and Alfred have. I tried to get more of Arthur's thoughts in here to show the distinct difference. The document is the Declaration of Independence to set the date. PLEASE review! Reviews are my fuel! I have so much more to come. **


	6. Chapter 6

The sun was smothered by dark clouds hanging over the wet Virginian land. Rain fell from the sky, drenching thousands of soldiers below who were stuck in turbulent battle. Guns continuously fired, and canons let off deafening booms among the exhausted men, who no longer flinched at the sounds of war.

Behind lines of red-coated soldiers, a grey horse, covered up to his girth in a thick layer of mud, raced to a huddled group of mounted men. Upon the animal, rode an exuberantly dressed man, who urged the horse to go faster. He held onto his rain soaked hat, preventing it from leaving it's place on his head. His teeth were bared, as he rode aggressively, trying to reach his men quickly.

His horse suddenly dove, his legs collapsing from underneath himself. As a victim of inertia, the rider continued to move forward, striking the muddy, beaten ground at an unsettling speed. The man raised his mud covered face, refusing to recognize any injuries as he climbed up from the ground. He looked back to see his horse, shot and dead on the soiled Earth. Cursing under his breath, he stumbled forward, now running on foot to his destination. He dodged a soldier's falling body, shaking his head, pretending not to hear his final cry.

He neared the group of men, who all turned their heads to see him. Another finely dressed man looked down from his horse astonished.

"Kirkland? My god, what happened to you?"

Chest heaving, the other looked up at him with a wet, dirty face.

"Never you mind that, Lord Cornwallis. Surrender…We have to surrender."

All the men stared at the man on foot. Cornwallis spoke in an understanding, yet slightly surprised tone.

"Right away, sir. Though I do remember you specifically ordering me not to surrender under any circumstances-"

"Well this is a circumstance you'll have to! Don't defy me, Major General! We're getting nowhere. The Americans and French are too much for our troops."

It pained the man to the depths of his very soul to admit defeat, but he couldn't suppress his sense of self preservation any longer.

He mounted a horse that was offered to him and trotted off along side Cornwallis. In front of them, a British messenger cantered forward waving a muddy white cloth. Firing from both sides ceded as the two men rode in between the opposing forces. They waited for the American and French leaders.

Four horses approached. On the back of the singular dapple grey, the Lieutenant General Rochambeau, who was commanding the French troops rode along side of the disgustingly familiar Francis Bonnefoy, who sported a smug expression, smirking at the mud covered Englishman. Beside those two, was the infamous American General, Washington, who wore an expressionless face. And on the end was Alfred, on a sturdy bay horse, clad in his blue uniform he had developed over the years, his face covered in sweat and dirt.

All six of the men dismounted, handing their horses off to soldiers to be held. There was a long silence, when only the sound of the rain falling could be hurt. The red-coated man looked at the general beside him before sloshing forward through the mud, stopping between the two groups. He breathed.

"It can't be too much more obvious. The Kingdom of Great Britain surrenders to France and…and America."

His eyes darted over to see Alfred, and to his surprise, he was not grinning like his ally. He looked down, reaching up to remove his hat from his head to let the rain wash over him. The water rushed down the sides of his face and leaked out through his fringe as thousands of eyes were upon him. He didn't care. Not anymore. The hat seemed to grow heavier by the long seconds, and as if the world was on hold, he let the hat slip from his fingers and slowly sank to his knees. Water from the ground soaked into the white fabric of his pants as he knelt, staring at the ground with glassy eyes. The knot at the top of his throat seemed to worsted as he tried to swallow, a choking gasp coming from his mouth. He tried to breathe, but found it difficult, causing his chest to heave. He closed his eyes, blinking hard. Tears pressed through his lids and mixed with the falling rain. He raised a hand to wipe his face, only smearing mud across it.

"Damn it!"

He striked the ground with a fist, sitting back on his feet, causing a combination of mud and water to splash up at him.

"Damn it!"

This time, his voice cracked. More tears escaped his wet eyes as he closed them again, wishing it was over. All over.

"Arthur…"

He heard the sloshing of feet approach him. He looked up to see a man. A man who stood not even two meters from him, gazing down at him in pity. Arthur choked on his tears as he tried to talk.

"Go on, Alfred! You have what you wanted! The mighty Great Britain on his knees before you!"

Alfred watched Arthur sadly, speaking in a hesitant, uncharacteristic voice.

"You used to be…so big…"

They stared at each other for a long moment. The rain seemed to pour down harder as both sides watched the two men in silence. Arthur felt a tug on his arm. He looked up to see his general.

"Sir…We have to leave…We've spent too much time here."

Without a word, Arthur stood, turning his back on the man he used to consider his son. He remounted his horse and rode off with his departing troops, not daring to look back at Alfred.

* * *

**The end of the Revolution. This is the Battle of Yorktown, where the British surrendered to the Americans and the French. The war didn't end right there, and there were a few more small battles until 1783 when The Treaty of Paris was signed. **

**But the show must go on! Much more to come! PLEASE REVIEW! You have no idea how much I appreciate your comments.**


	7. Chapter 7

_Dear Arthur,_

_How are you? I haven't written you in what I would consider a long while. I hope you are doing well and everything is going as planned with China. I told you Francis wasn't such a bad guy after all. Sorry, I can imagine that you didn't find the humor in that sentence as I did. I suppose I shouldn't delay the purpose of this letter much more, not that I have already, as the matter I have to discuss is dear to me._

_As you may or may not have heard (though I'm sure you have), I am suffering from some difficulties at home. I hate to seem needy or beg, but I am in dire need of funding and supplies and would truly appreciate anything you have to offer. Please, think it over and sleep on it if you must. Write me back soon._

_Sincere as ever,_

_Alfred_

Arthur sat the letter aside, releasing a deep sigh, capturing the interest of the man lounging on the plush, elaborate sofa across from him.

"You know I do not normally stick my nose into other people's personal affairs, Arthur, but I can not help but feel that a disheartened sigh like the one you just illustrated can only mean that the letter you received is from our dear Alfred."

Arthur looked up at the man with a repugnant expression.

"He's not yours, Francis, and frankly, he isn't mine either."

Francis smiled softly at the other, gently touching his trimmed facial hair with long, fine fingers.

"But am I right?"

Arthur hesitated before answering, disliking the fact that his cohort was correct in his observations. He huffed, folding his arms in discontent.

"I suppose. I honestly can't understand how it appears so obvious that Alfred wrote me."

Francis sat up, still smiling at the Englishman's display. He leaned back against the sofa, tilting his head as if to observe the numerous amount of crystals dangling from the lamp shade on the end table.

"It's because I know you, Angleterre…and I know how you feel for Alfred. Besides, the English do have a way with their facial expressions."

He glanced over to watch the other's reaction, and as he had hoped, Arthur's cheeks turned a light pink. The Englishman, in an attempt to cover up any signs of embarrassment, merely huffed again and turned his head away, creating a silence between the two.

Francis rose from his seat and made his way over to the cabinet behind the grouchy Englishman, producing two crystal glasses. He pulled a clear, glass stopper from a half empty liquor bottle and poured the auburn substance into each glass, filling one more than the other. He carried the glasses over to where the other was sitting, secretly admiring his surroundings as he lowered himself gracefully next to his sulking associate.

He couldn't deny that Arthur was starting to develop some sense in fashion, even if his own was better. The room was brightly lit, illuminating all the colours on the extravagant furniture, lighting up the detailed walls. The light danced off the slowly rotating crystals, hanging from the elegant chandelier which hung from the unnecessarily tall ceiling. The tasseled curtains were pulled shut across the broad windows, giving the two men privacy in the overly large and florid study.

Francis crossed his legs, offering Arthur the fuller of the two glasses. Grudgingly, Arthur took the glass, not bothering to thank the other as he took a rather large sip from it. The Frenchman licked his lips in an attempt to prevent himself on commenting on the man's bad drinking habits. He reached into his blue, ornate vest pocket and produced a folded paper, capturing Arthur's attention.

"What's that?"

"I received a letter from Alfred too."

Francis sat his untouched glass of liquor down.

"It's regarding his 'need of funding and supplies.'"

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows.

"Bugger, that's what he said in his letter to me, the little git. Are you going to give him anything?"

"I wanted to discuss it with you first."

Arthur sat his empty glass down, shaking his head.

"I refuse to supply him with anything. You and I both know he isn't well right now."

Francis sighed, reaching back to check that the blue ribbon that held his hair back stayed in place.

"I am aware. I'd hate to have him hurt himself though…"

"Well, I suppose he'll have to. I'm not starting any more wars with him. If he thinks that I'm going to show him pity or whatever the hell he assumes he's going to get from me, he's wrong."

Arthur shook his head as if to rid himself of the very thought. Francis looked at the floor, troubled.

"You certainly know how to put your fist down, Arthur…"

The Englishman shot the other a suspicious look.

"Don't tell me you're thinking of helping him."

"No...I won't help him without you- "

Arthur cut him off.

"Good, it would be a silly thing to do."

Francis looked up with an annoyed expression, raising his voice slightly to finish his sentence.

"_But, _I can not help feeling a strong sense of distaste regarding your bitter resentment toward Alfred."

Arthur shot a nasty glare at Francis who frowned. Francis reached a hand up to brush back some Arthur's fringe, as if to sooth the other.

"I know you do not really hate him, Angleterre…But it's not good for a man like yourself to be so despising of someone so close."

Arthur snapped back, batting the other's hand away.

"Shut up. He no more closer than you are to me."

The Frenchman sighed, rising to his feet with a disheartened aspect to his handsome, angular face.

"I will see you tomorrow, Arthur."

He leaned down to press a gentle, wistful kiss to Arthur's head, taking his distinct tobacco and hard liquor scent into his lungs before gathering his coat and gloves, and departing from the Englishman's grandiose house.

Arthur ruffled his hair, erasing the feeling of the Frenchman's lips from his head. He stood, moseying over to the liquor cabinet.

He hated when Francis was right.

* * *

**This is a major time skip from the Revolution to just before the American Civil War (yeah, I skipped the War of 1812). In case anyone is confused as to why Francis and Arthur are not trying to kill each other and are lounging about in Victorian England, allow me to explain:**

**Britain and France were allied against China during the Second Opium War (yeah, _Opium_). Southern America (the part that was trying to leave the Union) had it in their minds that Great Britain and France were going to supply and fund them, but the two decided to remain neutral. France _did_ supply the Confederacy a little bit, but...I mean...it's the French... *cough***

**And can I please take this moment to express how much I _love_ writing France. He's just so- Fabulous. I hope you lot enjoyed this chapter! PLEASE REVIEW! I love it when you guys review! I have more to come and am constantly working on this. **


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur Kirkland stuck a finger in the collar of his dress shirt, loosening the growing tension around his neck before rapping his knuckles on Alfred Jones' New York City apartment door. He sighed, waiting impatiently as he fingered his velvet top hat.

It had been a significant number of years since Arthur had last paid Alfred a visit. The Civil War was now over in America and Alfred was no longer struggling financially, mentally, or otherwise. Now Alfred had taken it upon himself to explore the world and make a name for himself, forcing Arthur to stay alert for any trouble. This is precisely why he was visiting America. Trouble.

Footsteps came from behind the lightly coloured door. Arthur rocked back onto the heels of his feet, feeling anxious. He hadn't seen Alfred in decades. How much had the once young boy changed? He sincerely hoped only the best to come from this meeting, even when he intended on scolding Alfred for his behaviour and actions.

The door opened. Arthur immediately forced himself to crack a polite smile at the answerer, suddenly realizing that it was the host himself. He maintained what he would consider a stupid grin as the other stuck out a hand, shaking the Englishman's firmly, beaming back.

"Hey, Artie, how ya doing?"

He motioned for Arthur to enter his apartment, still holding the other's hand. He spoke again, not allowing his guest to answer his first question.

"God, it's been a while!"

Arthur nodded.

"Yes, it certainly has."

Arthur couldn't help but feel incredibly overwhelmed. Alfred had changed since their last meeting nearly 50 years ago, but some traits still lingered. No letter or telegram could depict the tone of voice he had; a tone he had ever since he was a child, strong, powerful, and convincing. He still possessed the same persevering effect on his face, which he held mainly in his sharp eyebrows and bright blue eyes. Arthur noted his smile, one he hadn't seen since Alfred was a boy. He had seen the other's boastful grins and devious smirks, but this one was simple and unblemished by any outside forces acting upon him. The Englishman secretly took in his warm rays, admiring how the upward pull on his cheeks caused his eyes to sparkle as well, adding sincerity to the expression. He wore a sharp grey-blue suit, the popular style and colour of many tasteful individuals, that traced his body, revealing an almost ideal figure that most men would envy. Arthur had to admit Alfred had grown into a handsome man.

Alfred closed the door behind the two of them, throwing an arm around Arthur's smaller shoulders, walking him further into his home.

"I'm rather excited that you've decided to visit. What's the occasion?"

Arthur, a bit surprised at Alfred's immediate intimacy, was lead to another room that's far wall consisted of a few large windows that allowed copious amounts of light in, rendering the use of electricity useless. He sat down across from Alfred, who found his place behind his dark wood desk, lounging carelessly in it.

"Actually, Alfred, I can't say it's what you would call 'exciting' news, but more of a complaint."

Arthur continued to uphold his polite, gentleman-like tone and words. It made him uneasy how Alfred's grin did not falter even slightly at his words, but only became obnoxious as Alfred's genuine smile shifted into an inquisitive smirk.

"A complaint?"

Arthur nodded, clearing his throat.

"Your brother, Matthew, wants his sealing ships back. He's very upset, Alfred."

Alfred stuck his bottom lip out, raising his eyebrows in a mock concerned expression.

"Well, why didn't he say so?"

Arthur's tone soon settled into an irritable business voice, now recalling why Alfred had given him so many headaches in the past.

"Well, apparently he _did_ say so. You just didn't listen."

"Did he send you?"

"No, I came on my own personal accord, but he knows I'm here."

Alfred leaned back in his plush, leather chair, a frown forming on his face as he stared aimlessly at the ceiling.

"Are you upset? I just…I thought you of all people would understand."

Arthur paused, furrowing his eyebrows.

"How do you suppose that?"

Alfred looked at the Englishman across from him.

"Well, you know, you were really powerful and Great Britain expanded all over the world. That's all I'm trying to do…"

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"You want to be like me?"

The American nodded, looking down in disappointment, looking remarkably childish.

Arthur was not expecting _that_ reply. He felt like something was going on that he didn't know about. That something made him uneasy. He narrowed his eyes as Alfred spoke again.

"To be honest, I thought you'd be a little more flattered…"

Arthur shot a glare at Alfred, finding offense in his words. He stood up suddenly, nearly knocking the chair over.

"Well I'm not flattered! You're getting yourself into trouble, Alfred! Give Matthew his ships back or I'll send the Royal Navy on you as soon as I can!"

Alfred looked up at the other, very shocked.

"I'm sorry to have upset you- "

"Just give them back!"

"Fine."

"Fine."

And with that, Arthur wheeled around, feeling a rush of excitement in his chest.

"Good day, Alfred."

He let himself out of the Apartment and traveled back down to the street. He knew what he did was entirely rude and perhaps very uncalled for, but couldn't help himself. He hated the idea of Alfred getting into trouble; he had to watch out for him, though he would never reveal those feelings to anyone but himself. He knew the next time he met with Alfred wasn't far from now.

* * *

**1890s Expansionism!America! This was awkward for me to write, but I felt like it was very nessessary to the relationship between the pair. Arthur feels as if he has almost been reintroduced to Alfred, and can't help but feel irritated by him, thus starting a whole new period of their relationship.**

**Much more to come. PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks!**


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur stormed into his study, throwing a crumpled paper across the room in a ferocious manner before falling back ward into his leather cushioned chair. His concerned French ally found a seat across from him, appearing somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of such an enraged Englishman. He shifted in his seat, finding the stiff, straight back uninviting, not helping his awkward situation. Clearing his throat to gain the other's attention, he spoke up.

"I truly appreciate what you're doing for me, Arthur-"

Arthur shot him an annoyed expression, interrupting the other.

"Goddamn it, Francis. I'm not doing this for you, you git."

"I- I know…But I can't help but feel thankful now that you'll be fighting along side me."

Arthur sat up in his chair, preparing himself to lecture Francis.

"If it wasn't for your eagerness to assist Ivan in Serbia, Ludwig would have never felt threatened enough by you to have his troops burst through Belgium like a bat out of hell to reach you. Why he feels threatened in the first place baffles me. You _are_ French after all. I _was_ intending on keeping out of it, but apparently that isn't going to happen."

The other's words seemed to puncture the Frenchman from within, causing a pained expression to from on his handsome face.

"Arthur, I understand you're upset, but please don't become upset at me. I was only doing what I thought was right, not because I wanted to anger you. Please understand me when I say this."

Arthur slammed his white-knuckled fist onto the desk before him, causing some of the materials on top to fall over, roll off, or merely leap a centimeter or two in the air.

"I _do_ understand! Don't tell me what I understand and don't!"

The man growled after finishing his aggravated sentence. He leaned down to put his head on his desk and cover himself with his arms, releasing a stressful sigh. Guilt seeped into the Frenchman's conscience, feeling somewhat responsible for his colleague's irritable state.

The stress levels had been high on everyone for the past few years with the young Ludwig Beilschmidt and his eagerness to become recognized as a powerful man. Arthur has been working at a competitive rate, building one battle ship after another in a state of paranoia; but despite his efforts, Ludwig was always on top of it, building ships to challenge the Englishman. And then came the unexpected death of the Austrian-Hungarian Arch Duke, Franz Ferdinand. Not surprisingly, Roderich Edelstein and his wife, Elizabeta Héderváry, had an absolute fit and Ludwig rushed to defend them and get revenge on the Serbian student who assassinated the Arch Duke. Ivan Braginski had vowed to protect Serbia and defend the country from the German's excuse for a war. Needless to say, Francis also volunteered to help the Russian, causing Ludwig to break the London pact he had with Arthur to keep Belgium neutral, landing the Englishman in the middle of the confusion. And somewhere in the mess, Kiku Honda found reason to start conflict with the young German as well, concerning his relative, Yao Wang. One could certainly say the destined engagement was a deranged and chaotic disarray of hurt feelings, pride, pent up anger, and blinded fury.

So here sat Francis Bonnefoy and his overly frustrated ally in his London home. In an attempt to comfort Arthur, he stood and bent over the desk to bury his face into the other's hair, touching his arms softly. He waited for the Englishman to react violently to his actions, but after long moments of no response of the sort, he closed the lids over his blue eyes, nuzzling his nose into the other gently.

If an onlooker were to see, the pair would seem generally awkward in their position. The room was now silent except for the sound of air quietly escaping the lungs of the two men sharing the rare moment of solitude in each other's company.

The chair Arthur sat it creaked as the Englishman began to raise his shoulders to look up at the other. Francis did not recoil back, but remained bent with his groomed hair fallen forward and his moistened lips slightly parted as he watched Arthur, with secretly eager eyes, draw close to him with his own green pair. Francis' heart fluttered at the thought of Arthur responding so sensually to his advance that had originally intended to be innocent and simply comforting in nature. He let his eyes fall shut again as his hands traveled up to rest on the back of the other's neck and cup his jaw. Arthur's exhales of breath streamed consistently against Francis' face as the bridges of their noses touched. Francis could hear Arthur swallow what he hoped wasn't regret, wishing to close to lingering gap between their mouths.

Arthur suddenly hesitated enough to pull away from the other's hold, leaning back into his chair and turning his head away to avoid the Frenchman's disappointed stare.

"Leave it, Francis…you know I don't take part in any of that overly sentimental shit."

Francis sighed heavily, finding his seat again and fixing his hair to appear as if he hadn't been in physical contact with Arthur.

"Sorry…"

The two men sat in silence for a seemingly long while. Arthur pulled out a drawer in his desk and produced two cigarettes, tossing a more than obliging Francis one. Arthur took a drag and tilted his heavy head back over the chair, blowing the smoke out through his mouth in a lazy column of grey gas.

"I wonder what Alfred will have to say."

The thought had been completely random from Arthur's point of view, but his ally knew he had been waiting to voice it for a while now. Arthur continued in a curiously carefree voice.

"Not that his opinion matters, of course. It would be interesting. That's all."

"There is no need to explain, Arthur."

The Englishman sat up, appearing as if confused.

"Explain what."

"You don't need an excuse to talk to Alfred."

"An excuse? Is _that_ what you think this is about?"

Arthur's mood swings left Francis feeling unnerved. From a fiery and dangerous rage to an absolutely delightful tea time inflection and tone, he went on.

"I'm just sure Alfred would hate to get mixed up in a mess like this."

Francis, deciding it best not to cross Arthur's path and contradict him, nodded in mock agreement and inhaled from his cigarette. But the truth of the matter was that Arthur knew it was a false agreement. Both of them knew they'd see Alfred soon enough, whether they liked it or not.

* * *

**Yay! We finally made it to WWI! There is more to this war that involves Alfred and less Francis, but here we really see how Arthur is taking a new interest in Alfred, and once again, I find it necessary. And poor Francis, we really don't give him enough credit. I introduced tons of new characters that are going to start to get their parts slowly but surely. _I'm_ excited. **

**PLEASE REVIEW and tell me what you thought! I'm working on the next chapter already! **


	10. Chapter 10

"We need to get back to France as soon as possible. Francis looks absolutely awful and I hate to just leave him like that, even if it is for only a few days-"

"Relax, Arthur, everything will be fine now that I'm here. We're leaving tomorrow if that's alright with you."

Arthur and his newly arrived and proclaimed ally, Alfred, sat across from each other in the kitchen of Arthur's London home on the morning of the American's third day in Britain. After intercepting an important telegram from Ludwig Beilschmidt's leader, Kaiser, to Mexico, Alfred declared war on the German, throwing himself into the great brawl in Europe. Obviously Arthur and Francis were beside themselves in relief, as they had been fighting the Central Powers for almost four long, hard years alone. Alfred had what the French and Englishman were lacking. He had fresh troops and a positive outlook. His face was clean and he looked like he had three square meals a day and a full night's rest. He hadn't seen what was to come in France. The sickly trenches and an unmerciful enemy were enough to crush any man's very body, spirit, and soul.

Arthur bit into his buttered toast, secretly thankful that he was in London being fed, and not starving with Francis in a wet and muddy trench.

"That's more than fine."

Alfred sipped his coffee casually as he looked down to read the newspaper in front of him.

"Arthur, you know I'm not going to let any of those Central-Powered dogs win."

"That's what you keep saying. I'd just like to get out of Britain first."

Alfred peered up.

"Stop repeating yourself, I heard you the first thirty times."

"I just don't want anything bad to happen to- "

"Arthur! I know!"

Alfred slammed the paper onto the small table before him in frustration and irritation.

"Listen. I'm here to help you and Francis. But good God, Arthur, you sound delirious!"

Alfred gave Arthur a stern gaze, one that he usually got from the other. The Englishman sat back in his chair, absorbing the American's concerned words.

"You haven't been sleeping well and you sound like you've swallowed a fucking brillow pad! You're not well right now, Arthur. Why don't you go upstairs and catch up on some sleep?"

"Alfred…I can't-"

"Do it for me, Arthur! Do it for me! How can I possibly fight Germans when my ally can't even stay awake or hold down a bowl of soup?"

Alfred was now standing and leaning over the table with a genuinely upset expression written on his young, noble face. Arthur hesitated before getting up and setting the cloth he was using as a napkin down on the table.

"I…I suppose that's fair."

The American extended a strong hand and clapped the other on the shoulder firmly.

"Just call me if you need me. I'll bring you up some food later. I promise I'm here to help."

Arthur nodded before turning to leave the kitchen and head upstairs to rest. It would be a long while before Alfred really got involved in the action, but his presence was all that mattered to the Englishman.

* * *

**Here's a short chapter on Alfred's entry into WWI. When the American's arrived in Britain, they stayed there for four days, then moved onto France (just a little nudge as to what's going on here). **

**Alfred has finally gained a lot of power and is seen as sort of a saviour during this time (I mean, he _is_ the hero after all). **

**PLEASE REVIEW and tell me what you think. There is much more to come, please stay tuned!**


	11. Chapter 11

November 5, 1918

"Which one of you has a piece of paper I can use?"

"You can't make anymore planes, Alfred. It's a waste."

"Don't be an ass. I need to write something."

Arthur Kirkland, Alfred Jones, and Francis Bonnefoy sat around a rickety wood table inside a tent on the outskirts of Germany, contemplating their plans for the days ahead of them. The Great War was finally coming to a close with Turkey's signed armistice at the end of October, followed closely by Austria-Hungary's on the 3rd. The only one left was Germany. The three knew that they had finally brought Ludwig Beilschmidt to his hands and knees, but the German remained persistent and returned fire anyway. It couldn't be long, they thought, until he eventually gave it.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Alfred.

"Like what?"

"What the hell, Artie? You'd think I was Kaiser himself."

Francis sighed, sensing another useless and annoying argument coming on. He rested his head in his hand, swirling the brandy in his cup before him lazily.

"Please, Arthur, just give him the paper. This constant bickering is pointless."

Arthur shot a glare at his neighbor before producing a notebook and handing the American a sheet of paper. Alfred took it and found a comfortable position hunched over, blocking his frantic writing from his two allies. The French and Englishman watched with curiosity, until Arthur felt the need to inquire exactly what he was writing.

"I'll tell you when I'm done."

"Alfred, we're your allies. You need to tell us what you're writing, trusting it concerns our situation."

"Just wait a minute."

A minute passed, followed closely by a few more minutes, then an hour. Francis and Arthur, out of pure boredom, broke from the table and indulged in other more "exciting" activities, while Alfred continued to write.

Two hours later, he was done.

"Hey, Artie and Francis, come over here, it's important."

Francis and Arthur found their places back at the table, both with exhausted faces.

"I wrote a letter to Ludwig."

Arthur's eyes widened as Alfred's words shook him awake.

"You what?"

"I wrote a letter to Ludwig concerning an armistice and my Fourteen Points."

There was a pause where Arthur and Francis exchanged worried glances.

"Alfred…don't you think your Fourteen Points are a bit impractical?"

"No."

The Englishman sighed, looking at Francis again, who spoke.

"I agree with Arthur. And if we were to take land away from Germany, I want it to be more than you have listed. I won't suffer from another German invasion!"

Arthur forced Francis to sit back down. Instead, Alfred stood.

"Well, I'm sending it. If we can get Ludwig to agree, that's all that matters."

"Fine, but we're talking with him face to face."

"I know, Artie. I have it all planned. It'll be fine."

* * *

November 11, 1918, Compiegne, France

The Allied Powers sat in Ferdinand Foch's parked railway carriage, waiting for their guest. The three had prepared an Armistice for the German to sign in hopes that he would agree to cease fire. The thought of meeting their enemy face to face was nerve racking to Francis, upsetting to Arthur, and exhilarating to Alfred.

They could hear sloshing footsteps approach. A knock came at the door. Alfred took the liberty to step forward and open it, coming eye to eye with the man he'd never physically come across before. The American paused, staring back into icy blue eyes; ones that could only be described as piercing and cloudless, eyes that could give any man the feeling of being completely translucent and vulnerable under his cold gaze. The two didn't move. Alfred remained fixed on the German, and the other merely watched the American's face with an expressionless veil. Arthur coughed, trying to bring distraction to Alfred. Alfred blinked.

"I- Come in."

Alfred stepped back and let the German enter the car fully, closing the door behind him. Ludwig Beilschmidt removed his hat, revealing the rest of his short, slicked back, golden blond hair. His neck was thick and chest broad with muscle, adding size to his already large stature; something his blue-grey uniform couldn't conceal. He had a firm jaw and a serious but young face that was tired from war. The German was what most would consider the epitome of an intimidating, yet beautiful man.

He found a seat across from the other three as Alfred pushed a paper and ink toward him.

"I have already prepared the armistice document; all you have to do is sign."

Ludwig looked from Alfred to Arthur to Francis, who squirmed under his gaze, and then to the paper before him. He cleared his throat, speaking in a soft yet deep, hard, and assertive voice that remained monotone.

"Und the details we discussed are to be included, Herr Jones?"

Alfred nodded, confirming that the Fourteen Points were in the agreement.

Ludwig hesitated before picking up the fountain pen and signing his name on the line that asked for it. He dropped the pen and looked up at the other Europeans in the room, who appeared as if they had been holding their breath the entire time. He stood, and the others followed his action.

"Thank you, Mr. Beilschmidt."

Alfred extended a hand to Ludwig. The German looked the American up and down once before turning around and letting himself out of the train car, deciding not to shake the other's hand, leaving Alfred in somewhat of a shock. He retracted his hand and looked over to the other two.

Francis let his head fall to the table, sighing in absolute and genuine relief, muttering thanksgivings in French under his breath. Arthur rubbed his face with both of his hands.

"Oh, God…it's over…it's over…"

He looked up at Alfred.

"Let's go get drunk."

* * *

June 1919

Alfred, Arthur, and Francis stood at the head of the rows of tables that occupied the conference room. It had taken since January to get to where they were now after discussing the details of peace treaties and what to do with Germany.

The room held strong feelings and the countries murmured amongst themselves, occasionally eying the American with expressions of loathing. However, he was too busy sorting out the bickering between the French and Englishman to take any notice.

Alfred cleared his throat and called the meeting to order.

"Alright my fellow countries, Arthur, Francis and I have the treaty that we wrote up and showed Ludwig. Please listen for any parts that concern you. This is final. We're going to meet with Ludwig tomorrow to have him sign it. Okay? Okay. Here we go for German land losses:

"First, Eupen, Malmédy and Moresnet are to go to Belgium."

The silence was broken by an outburst of whispers. Arthur stepped forward, raising a hand.

"Everyone shut it!"

Alfred nodded a 'thanks' to his ally and continued.

"Northern Schleswig goes to Denmark. Next, Troppau is to be transferred to Czechoslovakia. Great Britian gains Tanganyika and part of Togoland and the Cameroons."

Arthur straightened up and smirked proudly at the announcement of his new colonies, feeling quite superiour. Alfred made a quick glance to the side and smiled secretly at the Englishman, knowing that he had gotten what he wanted.

"The remaining African colonies are to be shared between Belgium and South Africa and the pacific islands are to be shared between Great Britain, Australia, New Zealand and Japan.

"Danzig is under full control of the League of Nations. No alliance between Austria and Germany is allowed, and finally Poland gains half of Silesia and Prussia, to see that he is seperated from Germany."

The mentioning of Prussia caused an uproar. Lovino, one of the Italian Vargas brothers shot up, hurling insults and complaints to the front of the room, while a crowd started to gather around Alfred, yelling and demanding their share of land from Germany. Yao Wang pushed his way through.

"Alfred Jones! I request Kiku Honda to return Shandong to me!"

"No, no, Yao, I told you I tried, but I can't."

Francis and Arthur fought their way through the other countries, trying to separate them from the American.

"Right! Everyone back to your seats! Come on!"

The mob settled down, creating a silence in the room again. Arthur raised his hand to speak.

"Who has something to say?"

The Australian stepped forward.

"I do, dad."

The Englishman sighed.

"Get on with it then."

The former British colony turned to Alfred.

"I want war reparations and to annex the German New Guinea. _And_ I want the Japanese equality bill rejected."

Alfred let out a huff.

"Do you really wanted to flout world opinion by profiting from Germany's defeat?"

"That's about the size of it, Mr. Jones."

Arthur had enough and motioned the cheeky Australian away.

"Will everyone please just have a seat?"

Lovino Vargas stormed to the front of the room, dragging his twin brother, Feliciano, with him. He shook a fist at the American and Englishman, speaking in a furious tone.

"You stupid bastards! You do not listen to Italy when we want territory like rest of world! The idiot American only wants the stupid Brit to have it! You are very unfair and I spit on your grave when I kill you! Okay? Bye."

The room watched as the Italian pulled the other out of the room in a tiff. Arthur looked at Alfred, who looked almost equally overwhelmed as he did, thinking about how frustrated and pleased he will be tomorrow with Ludwig.

* * *

June 28, 1919, Versailles, France

"Gilbert's coming with him, right?"

"Yes, Arthur, you've asked a million times already."

Arthur, Francis and Alfred walked down the hallway on their way to have their final meeting with Ludwig to sign the treaty.

"Right, sorry. I'm just ready to shove it in his fucking German face and watch him fall to pieces."

Francis looked at the other two with a disheartened expression.

"That isn't going to happen, Arthur."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Because, this is not peace. It is an armistice for twenty-one years. We have not weakened him enough. In twenty-one years, he'll just rise to power again. And next time, he will finish me."

Alfred stopped, causing the other two to follow suit. Looking Francis in the eye and placing his hands on the Frenchman's shoulders, he spoke in a reassuring and dauntless voice.

"Francis. Arthur and I will die fighting to protect you. We swore it to eachother in our own blood the day we both relized that there are somethings in this world worth dying for."

Francis stared back at younger man, taken aback by his words. He turned his head to his English ally for confirmation. Arthur swallowed heavily and turned a light shade of pink, avoiding the other's gaze. He gave a small nod.

"In our blood~"

The three men stood quietly in the hallway, sharing an intimate moment where no words needed to be said; where the moment could go on forever, trusting that obnoxiously loud Germans entering the building didn't interrupt.

The three dashed off toward the room where the treaty was to be signed, trying to appear calm and collected by the time the German and Prussian arrived.

Their footsteps could be heard from down the hall, and a vile, throaty voice rang above it all, echoing in the hallways. Arthur rocked back on his heels.

"Well, Gilbert's here."

The door opened and the Beilschmidt brothers entered. Ludwig closed the door behind his shorter, white skinned and haired older brother, who marched in, giving the three a sinister, toothy grin, showing off sharp cainines. Alfred motioned for them to sit.

"We gave you your three weeks to come up with your formal complaint. If you'd like to voice- "

The albino interrupted Alfred,

"Of course we have complaints to voice, you lying pig!"

Ludwig cut in, giving his brother a displeased look.

"Shush, Gilbert, I will be doing to talking here. You are not Germany."

Alfred cleared his throat.

"So if you'd like to start, Mr. Beilshmidt, the floor is yours."

The room remained hushed as the German began to speak.

"I find your entire proposal unfair. There is nothing in this treaty that involved Herr Jones' Fourteen Points. Neither Britain, France, or America had made any negotiations with me in the past six months. The rest of the world has been deciding my fate and my brother's."

Arthur smirked at Ludwig.

"Well, I can hardly blame the world for deciding how it did."

Both the German and the Prussian glared dangerously at the Englishman. Ludwig sneered at him.

"And more importantly, I do not apprieciate the revengeful attitudes I have received from the British."

A long, silent moment of tension followed his remark. He spoke again.

"Und I don't want Gilbert to go to Feliks."

The American sighed, changing the subject to become more convient for himself.

"Well, unfortunatly I don't find any of those points valid. Do you guys?"

Francis and Arthur shook their heads. Alfred shrugged.

"Okay then. Ludwig Beilschmidt, you have no other option but to sign this treaty, or else you'll have to face the concequences."

Gilbert leaned over to his younger brother.

"Don't do it, Ludwig."

"I have to."

"No you don't! Since when have English and French speaking pieces of shit like this ever told a German what to do. You are Germany. You're stronger than them!"

"Bruder! Bitte!"

Ludwig cast a sideways glance at the Prussian, wishing him to be quiet. He lifted a hand and ran it through his hair as the defeated expression he had been masking became more visible on his enthralling and bothered face.

"I…I will sign."

Alfred pushed the document towards the German, waiting patiently with his comrades for him to finish. Francis signed next, and then Arthur, ignoring the albino's complaints and vulgar language. The Englishman pushed it toward the American, who pushed it away. The room looked at him with wide eyes, as Arthur tried to force it back at him.

"Alfred, what are you doing?"

"I'm not signing it."

"Why not?"

Anger filled Arthur's voice, and Francis stared at Alfred in horror and panic. Gilbert cackled.

"It is because the bastard hasn't got any fucking balls! He is scared shitless of what my little brother might do to him!"

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Gilbert!"

Arthur threw the pen in his hand violently at the desk, causing it to bounce back up and nearly hit Francis in the face.

"Why the hell aren't you signing?"

Alfred sighed, feeling guilty that he had dropped the news from his Congress so abruptly on his allies.

"Because my Congress didn't approve. I'm sorry, Arthur."

"God damn it, arsehole!"

Ludwig cleared his throat, rising to his feet.

"But it is signed now, regardless of whether Herr Jones did or not. I will be on my way."

Gilbert stood up as well to follow. Arthur, suddenly realizing that he had to detain Gilbert, swung around the desk, deciding it best to murder Alfred afterwards.

"Ah, ah, Gilbert, you're staying here."

"Fuck off, Arthur, I am going back with my brother."

"No you aren't, you belong to Feliks Lukasiewicz now."

Gilbert opened his mouth to insult and contradict Arthur when he was stopped by Ludwig.

"Gilbert…do not make this more difficult for me. I will be back for you in time. Bitte…stay."

Crimson eyes met blue ones.

"Was? Bruder?"

The younger of the two Germans nodded firmly, making his point clear to his astonished brother.

"In time, brother. It won't be long."

Ludwig turned, not wishing to prolong the agony he held deep within himself that came from leaving his family member in the holds of his enemy, and left the building. He didn't look back. His mind became a haze of anger and thoughts of revenge.

Inside, Gilbert regained his beastly demeanor again, smiling psychotically at the three. Alfred sighed and placed a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"I really am sorry, Arthur. I'll take care of Gilbert for you."

Alfred produced a handgun from his belt, knowing better then to lead the Prussian alone without it.

"Come on, Herr Heinie."

He stepped behind Gilbert, nudging him in the back with the gun and ignoring the German insults hurled at him as he marched the bitter man out of the room.

Arthur fell back into the chair behind him, rubbing his eyes.

"God, Francis…I don't know how he could just do that to us…"

Francis sunk into the chair next to Athur's.

"You know you will not be able to stay mad at him, Arthur. Besides, we need him on our side if anything happens again. Don't make him an enemy."

"I won't. He's just…frustrating."

"I know. And considering that fact that you were the one that raised him, how could he not be?"

The Frenchman smiled softly at the Englishman's grouchy face before standing to make his leave.

"We should get a drink together."

"Fine, after Alfred's done, then he can join us."

* * *

***Pants* Julius Caeser, that took a lot of effort. Ta-da! The end of WWI! Lots of important characters were introduced *cough Germany is sexy cough* and lots of history went down. We can now see how Alfred and Arthur are bonding again as friends! Yay! *Squish face* **

**Want to hear something fun? Alfred's line to Australia: ****"Do you really wanted to flout world opinion by profiting from Germany's defeat?" And Australia's reply: "That's about the size of it, Mr. Jones." were direct quotes that President Wilson and the PM from Australia at the Paris Peace Conference. Well, _I_ thought it was fun.**

**PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! I love you all for reading! Thank you! There is a much more coming your way!**


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur Kirkland waved the taxi away on the warm New York night in the summer of 1924. He turned on his highly polished heels, walking to the side of Alfred Jones' driveway to the American's large, lit up home that hosted a party.

Arthur came dressed in a light brown suit that had a tie tucked into the front of it. He left his matching fedora in his hotel room for fear of appearing too American in front of Alfred. If anything, he would hope that Alfred would refrain from making fun of him or calling him out on his fashion sense, now that he had become quite the "expert;" and not only an expert in fashion, but in all things fun and exciting.

Alfred had been raving about the wild parties and stunts he had hosted or done, and always made an effort to invite Arthur, or at least tell him about them after they were finished. However, this party, Arthur found the time to take a short holiday to attend.

As the Englishman approached, he could hear a band playing upbeat music from behind the house and the nonsensical chatter of what sounded like a great mass of people. He made his way passed a group of people headed the opposite direction and jogged up the stairs to the grandiose front porch. To his surprise, the door was already open and people move freely between the inside and out. Not wanting to look incapable or silly, he entered the house, taking a quick glance about.

A large, clear, and shimmering chandelier hung from the tall ceiling, letting the reflections of light dance across the walls above the grade staircase. Below it was the heads of men and woman laughing and talking in small groups, making it difficult to maneuver around the polished floor. Everyone seemed in a pleasurable mood, drinking and eating and clad in their best outfits. It was certainly not the sort of party Arthur expected. He stood, turning his head every which way in hopes of finding the host. After deciding it too long, he approached two men conversing with each other.

"Ah, pardon me, but would you happen to know where our host, Mr. Jones, is?"

The younger of the men nodded.

"Yes, yes, out in the garden. At least that is where I last saw him."

"Thank you."

Arthur nodded his head to the two before weaving through the people to reach the garden. He walked through glass doors leading to the outside and into another world.

The garden was lit with an exuberant amount of lights, hanging from posts and the foliage of cultivated plants. A bar wrapped around the side, bartenders rushing around to fill orders, near a fountain that squirted an array of water to various heights. A large band played on a platform, filled with all sorts of instruments that created dance music for the great amount of people on the shiny dance floor. The women wore their hair short and in curls, dancing in dresses that revealed their knees when they moved their arms and legs wildly to the music, usually across from their partner who moved the same.

Arthur made his way to the bar, keeping an eye out for his host. He leaned against the bar in a curious manner while waiting for his gin, making the clusters of women around him whisper into their neighbor's ear.

He sipped his spirit, while his eyes searched for Alfred.

The warm breezes of air pulsated his fringe against his forehead, blowing the aroma of sweet scented flowers across the garden, giving the atmosphere an even more unreal feeling. It seemed to match the heaven like setting, one that only Alfred would be capable of creating and Arthur envied him for. Alfred was after all, at heart, a romantic. He went into war, valiant, brave, and with purpose. He had visions of greatness and was never afraid. Alfred was born great, and continued to always achieve more greatness; and the world, without fail or hesitation, seemed to thrust it upon him at all costs. Arthur knew this.

Too many minutes passed and Arthur began to grow tired of the seemingly casual hunt for Alfred.

"This is ridiculous. "

Just as he was giving up on finding the American and turn around, a hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind. Arthur, not expecting it, twisted around to come face to face with a beaming Alfred.

"Artie, old sport, you made it!"

The man, bright blue eyes and all, dressed in a spotless, white suit, shook Arthur's hand vigorously.

"How ya been?"

Arthur, overcoming his shock quickly, smiled back.

"Fine, fine, how are you?"

"Pretty fine myself."

Alfred spread his arms, motioning to their surroundings.

"What do you think?"

"About the party? It's…fantastic."

Arthur didn't lie or even exaggerate, but regardless, Alfred's self pride sky rocketed to new heights.

"There have been a lot of things going on over here that would interest you, Artie."

"Oh? I've heard about the Vargas brothers- "

Alfred cut him off for no reason in particular. Arthur knew that if they were in the trenches still and not in the presence of ladies, he would have reprimanded the American and set him straight, but unfortunately, their conditions proved to be quite the opposite.

"They're here! Lovino, you know, the loud one, had a fit when he heard about Mr. Sacco and Venzetti. Personally, I don't give a damn. They can hang for all I care. Two anarchists don't have a chance in over throwing my Capitalist system single handedly; but regardless, I can still show Feliciano and Lovino a good time. Show 'em how real Americans party!"

With that, Alfred reached forward and took the shot of the liquor he ordered, leaving Arthur a bit confused as to what Alfred had just said. He took another sip of his gin, look casually around the busy garden. They both leaned against the bar cooly as Alfred spoke sideways to the Englishman.

"You're the main topic of the gossip tonight, Artie."

Arthur turned his head with widened eyes.

"What?"

Alfred smiled.

"Everyone wants to know who that 'mysterious, handsome-looking gentleman is.'"

Alfred smiled forward, still not looking at Arthur. His voice seemed to lose some enthusiasm and he dropped his head a bit to quote more of his guests.

"'He must be a foreigner.' 'He must be one of Mr. Jones' special guests.'"

His voice trailed off. Arthur frowned at the uncharacteristic tone.

"You alright, Alfred?"

The American turned his head, grinning again.

"Huh? What do you mean? I'm fine."

"Well, you were just- "

"Let's dance!"

He leaned toward Arthur.

"Those two girls over there look like they'd love to."

Arthur peered over to where Alfred gestured to with his nods. Two girls stood whispering to each other in short dresses, their bodies nearly dripping with jewelry of all sorts. They caught Arthur's glance and turned their gazes away, blushing and giggling.

"You go on ahead. I'll be their in a moment."

"Sure thing."

Alfred reached over the counter and grabbed a full bottle of brandy and made his way over to the female pair.

Arthur sighed and waited for the three of them to wander off. His enjoyment of the party plummeted, not that it was particularly high in the first place. His hopes to enjoy a leisurely conversation with Alfred were diminished and he felt as if there were a million eyes staring at him. He figured he wouldn't have been able to hold onto him very long anyway. Alfred was too charismatic for his own good, and it was only natural for women to want his full attention; and knowing Alfred, he wouldn't mind have their full attention either.

He made his way to the edge of the garden and off toward a dark row of trees, anxious to escape all of the excitement of the party. The lawn, which was green by day, now matched the black sky, sans the white stars that twinkled in their places. The sound of the party became more and more distant and soon he could only hear the soft padding of his own shoes on the trimmed grass. He was nearly their when he heard someone running up behind him. He turned around.

"Who's there?"

"It's just me, Artie."

The taller man stopped in front of him. Only his silhouette could be seen, and he was carrying the bottle from before.

"Where are you going? You aren't leaving, are you?"

"N-No…I was just trying to get a moment to myself."

Arthur felt a sudden pang of guilt wash over him and he considered apologizing.

"Oh…Well if you aren't having a good time, you could have just said so."

"No, no, it's not that."

"Then what is- Charleston!"

Arthur flinched at Alfred sudden outburst. From the far off garden, an upbeat tune began to play.

"Let's dance."

Arthur tried to protest.

"Alfred, no- "

"Like this! I'll show you!"

Alfred stepped back and began swinging his arms and kicking his legs out in a ridiculous fashion.

"Come on, Artie!"

Arthur shook his head. Alfred couldn't force him to dance in such a stupid manner.

"No."

"Aw, you're no fun!"

Alfred continued to dance, and at instances would hop on one foot, rotating, and twirl a finger in the air. He had already thrown the empty liquor bottle to the ground and nearly stumbled over it twice. Arthur stood and watched, almost embarrassed for him.

The Charleston ended and a slower song began to play. Alfred panted and approached Arthur.

"Come on."

The American wrapped an arm around the other's waist and pulled him to his chest. Arthur immediately twisted out of his grip.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"It's a slow dance. I'd look dumb doing it by myself."

Arthur stared with his mouth hanging open slightly for a short moment.

"Well…What ever happened to those two girls you went off with?"

"I told them I couldn't abandon my best friend at my party. Besides, you rarely see me anymore."

"Look, Alfred- "

"Just dance with me, Artie."

He grabbed the Englishman's wrists and tugged him toward him again. Arthur made a poor attempt to protest.

"Alfred, you're drunk."

"And you aren't drunk enough. I don't think I like it when you're sober."

Alfred placed a hand firmly on Arthur's waist and offered him his other hand. Arthur stared at the hand, hesitating.

"What if someone sees?"

"They won't. It's too dark. Now hurry up, the song is going to be over before you decide to join in."

"Fine."

Arthur placed his hand into Alfred's and put his hand on his sturdy shoulder. They stepped slowly, Alfred leading the pair.

"Why do I have to be the woman?"

Alfred smiled down at Arthur.

"Because I'm taller."

Arthur let out a little laugh, turning his head to the side so he didn't have to stare awkwardly at the bottom of Alfred's chin.

Arthur slid the palm of his hand back a little on Alfred's shoulder, feeling the firm muscle. He had seen Alfred shirtless enough, but he had never gotten to feel it, even if it was only through clothes. And even though Alfred had been drinking, he still maintained his distinct musk, which Arthur smelled secretly.

Alfred let out a deep sigh.

"It's nice having fun with you, Arthur."

Something in Arthur's chest tightened as he inhaled sharply after Alfred's affectionate words. He moistened his lips, his mouth and throat feeling suddenly dry. An array of thought flashed through his mind, ranging from playing cards with him to kissing down his naked torso. His chest tightened even more, to the point where he felt it almost difficult to breathe. He tightened his hold on Alfred's shoulder in an attempt to shake the fantasies from his head.

"You alright, Artie?"

Arthur nodded, knowing his words would be warped if he tried to speak.

"You're uncomfortable to dance with, you know that? Not like a woman at all…"

The Englishman looked up suddenly and opened his mouth to hurl an insult back, but Alfred had let go of the other's hand and put it over his mouth to silence him.

"Shh, Arthur, I won't have your dirty mouth ruin this moment."

Arthur pulled away and spun back to reality, overcoming his moment of mute-ness.

"Shut it. You're drunk and I won't have you make a fool out of me."

Alfred furrowed his brow, appearing very desolate without Arthur.  
"But Arthur, I- "

"I said shut it. The song ended five minutes ago."

"What? So I'm not allowed to have a good time with you?"

Arthur paused, staring at the other's troubled face. His minded raced for a legitimate response, but failed to find one. In a rare act of evasion, he turned and started to make his way back toward the house, leaving Alfred standing alone in the dark.

* * *

**Alas, the 1920s! I couldn't help but throw so _Great Gatsby_ in there, it was too perfect.**

**So hear we have Arthur and Alfred and their ever evolving relationship. Alfred's doing curious things and Arthur's trying to deny his developing feelings towards Alfred. Even fantasies. *Sigh***

**I personally liked the idea of Alfred innocently trying to dance with Arthur. He was drunk and just wanted to have a bit of fun. Poor Alfie and Artie.**

**Anyways...PLEASE REVIEW! I have more chapters coming!**


	13. Chapter 13

"Artie! Wait!"

Alfred reached forward and grabbed Arthur's wrist as he tried to storm away after becoming upset at Alfred's suggestion to close his mouth.

"Let go of me!"

"What's wrong with you?"

The American tightened his hold on Arthur, tugging him back toward him.

"I just wanted some fun."

Arthur glared at Alfred through the darkness, still only able to see only his silhouette. He felt embarrassed and nervous and wasn't having a good time or fun. The entire situation was confusing to Arthur and he was done with his host and wanted to leave immediately.

"Just let me go."

"Why? What did I do wrong?"

The Englishman growled, attempting to put together a response that didn't sound ridiculous or needy.

"Nothing."

Alfred took a careful step toward Arthur, wrapping an arm around the other man's lower back. His voice lowered to a whisper, becoming sensual and concerned.

"That's not true…"

Arthur didn't protest in the least as Alfred pulled their hips together, bringing their faces centimeters from each others. Arthur could feel the heat being emitted through the other's clothing, and his warm breath on his cheek. He gasped as soft lips swooped down to place themselves on the corner of his mouth, then fully on his own lips. Arthur didn't hesitate to move his lips against Alfred's, savoring the sweet moment and vowing never to forget the other's touch and feeling. He slowly reached his arms around the American, holding onto his upper back, attempting to push him closer. It was perfect…perfect.

• • •

Arthur suddenly jolted awake, finding himself staring at a blank ceiling in a dark room. A thin, white sheet lay draped over the lower half of his body, just shielding his obviously nude self from the cool air. He flexed his toes and stretched his tired body, releasing a long yawn and dropping his arms out to the side, one of them striking another warm body. Arthur peered over.

"Shit."

He had paid a visit to Francis' home in order to discuss the Maginot Lines the French government had been building in defense of their county from Germany and Italy. Needless to say, their after meeting discussion and interactions had gotten a little out of hand, leading to heavy petting and sex. It was not unusual for the two to engage in such activities. In fact, they made an effort to meet and fornicate on a regular basis. However, Arthur had not intended to sleep over at the Frenchman's house, not that Francis would care.

He sat up, careful not to make any movements to wake his bed partner, who was sleeping with his back to Arthur. The Englishman swung his legs around the bed, causing the sheet to uncover him. He tried to ignore the fact that his dream had gotten him so aroused, and scolded himself inwardly for allowing himself to think up such unacceptable fantasies to cause him to become so.

Quickly, he snatched up his trousers and slipped into them, then gathered the rest of his clothes and made his way to the door, slipping out soundlessly. But however discreetly Arthur thought he had escaped was not the reality of the situation. The Frenchman had stirred early on, but knew better then to make his consciousness known to the man who hated interaction the morning after and rarely stayed that long. He watched Arthur through his reflection in the mirror on his dresser, and felt his heart sink when he saw the other's dream induced sexual excitement. It was no mystery to Francis who was causing it; he had know Arthur for far too long He longed for the confidence to tell the Englishman straight up what he thought, but after much inner debating, he figured Arthur would ignore him, and, to be blunt, he hated to ruin the kind of sex they were having. After all, Francis loved sex, and he knew his English companion did too.

Francis rolled on to his back and sighed, still feeling tired and weak. He would leave his considerably small dilemma with Arthur for another time. He had more significant battles to fight.

* * *

**Yep, yep! Still the 1920s. This is shortly after Alfred's epic Gatsby party.**

**I was starting to feel that it was necessary to be more blunt with Arthur and Francis' relationship. Now I'm also getting more revealing of Arthur's feelings toward Alfred. Yay! Excitment!**

**PLEASE REVIEW! I have so many chapters left to write!**


	14. Chapter 14

"No, no, I don't want any."

Arthur attempted for the at least the tenth time that day to wave off the ragged man trying to sell him shoelaces in the crowded New York streets. He shoved his way through the unforgiving and unmovable masses of Americans, standing outside the bank. Some shook their fist and shouted, while other faces had a forsaken and utterly abandoned look about them.

It wasn't like the last time Arthur had visited America. Last time, he attended Alfred's party and everyone was in good cheer, where as now, gloom had settled over the nation. Not that it was a surprise to the Englishman. Everyone was on hard times with the economic downturn. Arthur, himself, felt weakened by the whole experience, and was struggling back in Britain. He knew he didn't have a legitimate reason for visiting Alfred, and refraining from it would have saved a bit of money; but he wanted to.

He stepped over a man sleeping on the street curb. At least he _assumed_ he was sleeping. Arthur sighed and swallowed. He had finally shaken off all of the self proclaimed shoelace and daffodil vendors as he entered the lobby of Alfred's apartment building that sported the ever-so-common "evicted" notice. No one sat at the desk. Everything was silent, sans the faint noises from the street outside.

Arthur wandered casually over to white sign plastered to the wall.

_Evicted Building. Mr. Alfred Jones: Floor 23. Room 351._

The elevator was out of order. No surprise.

"Shit…"

Arthur grumbled to himself and started up the stairs.

• • •

Arthur reached the 23rd floor with beads of sweat forming on his brow. He hoped that Alfred was home, and if not, he would wait outside his door until he arrived.

He rapped his knuckled on the door. No answer. He knocked again.

"Alfred? It's me, Arthur. I've come to visit."

Within seconds, the jingling of locks and chains on the door could be heard. It opened to reveal Alfred in the most casual attire Arthur had ever seen him in. His pant's were worn and made for working in the fields. His leather shoes had scuffs and scratches on the toe and side; but more shocking, he only wore a military T-shirt that was now an off-white colour. He smiled at his English friend and invited him inside. It was unusual. Alfred always maintained an everlasting, glowing smile that enhanced his already bright, blue eyes. However, now he was lacking the same fierce-ness and intensity in his expression, and his attempted grin seemed almost sad.

"Sorry about the furniture. I had to sell most of it."

"That's understandable."

Arthur had a look around Alfred living room. Everything down to the wallpaper was gone, only leaving three wooden chairs and a table.

"Have a seat, Artie. What brings you here?"

Arthur allowed himself a seat next to Alfred, noticing the other's defeated and stressed tone.

"Nothing in particular; I just wanted to see what you were up to."

Alfred looked down and released a slightly bitter laugh.

"Just trying to make it another day, Artie…"

There was a pause before Arthur spoke again. It was worst then he had predicted.

"I know what you mean, mate."

Alfred gave a small nod continued to stare at the flooring. The two sat in silence, as Arthur really didn't have anything interesting or productive to say.

"Why did you really come, Arthur?"

"What do you mean?"

The Englishman was slightly startled by the other's suddenly accusatory inflection. Alfred looked up with his eyes, while Arthur's mind fumbled with a response.

"Well…I just wanted to see you, that's it. I mean it gets pretty lonely after a while…and- I supposed I missed your company."

Arthur stared off to the side in order to avoid Alfred's gaze. To be quite honest, Arthur was usually fairly snippy and reprimanding of the other. It wasn't something the man would usually admit to, but Alfred's condition almost forced him to confess the fact that he missed him.

Arthur brought his attention back to the American when he heard him suddenly inhale sharply.

"Alfred?"

Alfred raised his hands to his face, inhaling again. His rounded back shook as he ran his fingers back though his hair, revealing his reddened face.

"Oh god- Alfred…"

Arthur, without much thought, slipped from his chair and knelt before Alfred with raised eyebrows and a truthfully concerned expression.

"Alfred…Don't cry…It'll all be alright in time. I promise."

Alfred just shook his head, not able to form words yet as tears began streaming down his face.

This was new to Arthur. All new. He never thought he'd ever see Alfred Jones weep like a child. The last time he saw the American shed a tear was when he fell and scraped his knee as a toddler. He wanted to do something. Thoughts raced though his head, but before long, his parental instincts kicked in.

He remembered all the way back to the last time he saw Alfred cry. It was a warm, afternoon in the Spring, and Arthur was walking with the child, that only learned to walk not too ago, who had his small, soft hand wrapped around his larger fore-finger. The young Alfred became incredible intrigued with the flock of birds that had landed in the middle of the dirt path they were on. He released Arthur's finger and only made a few quick waddle steps before he fell forward. Arthur immediately swooped down to pick him up, making clucking noises of disapproval and concern. The boy was wailing in his arms, trying to shape words with his mouth to express his pain and discomfort, but Arthur silenced him by petting his back and holding him close to his own chest. He made soft coo-ing sounds and 'shh-ed' him, while rocking gently side to side. The man whispered soothing things to the boy, causing his tears to halt and mouth yawn, before reaching up to touch Arthur's face in a curious manner with furrowed brows.

Now he had a fully grown man in his arms and sobbing endlessly into his shoulder. He could feel the wetness, the other's tears were creating, seep to the skin below his clothing; but he didn't care. He hugged Alfred back, shushing him calmly. He felt it odd that he didn't initiate the embrace. Sure he was in the process of getting closer to the American in order to, but Alfred was the one who threw his body forward and began sobbing in to the well-clothed shoulder with his limp arms hanging around Arthur's neck.

"G-God- A-Artie- "

His voice shook and he stumbled along his words, choking on his tears.

"I've r-really sc-screwed up this time, h-haven't I?"

Arthur clicked his tongue, allowing Alfred to bury his damp face into his neck, resting his chin on top of the other's head.

"You haven't screwn up, lad…Everyone has it rough right now, yeah? Even I do."

"Y-Yeah…But I'm just such a god-d damn failure! This is s-supposed to be a-a fucking land where the r-roads are p-paved with _gold_! I was j-just running around trying to be everyone's-s hero."

He dug his nails into Arthur's back in anger, but Arthur ignored it. To see Alfred with such incredible lack of self confidence only made Arthur want to hold him tighter and feel that there was no way the two could be any closer.

"Alfred, darling…"

Arthur caught himself, recalling how Alfred used to bully him to stop using such terms of endearment when he was younger.

"I mean- Alfred, calm down please. It's not just you, I understand…I'm here… Shh, Alfred...don't cry...heroes don't cry…"

He ran his hands up and down the other's back slowly, feeling his back muscles vividly with his palms. He gave him reassuring squeezes as he waited, more than patiently, for the tears to subside.

Alfred finally worked himself back down to hiccups and pulled back slightly with reddened eyes and a childish face.

"You won't tell anyone else that I cried will you?"

"No, no, of course not."

Arthur smiled inwardly, knowing that somewhere in the weeping man before him, was the old fiery, prideful self he knew.

"Cross your heart and hope to die?"

The Englishman paused for a short moment before responding.

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

**

* * *

**

**Gah! I would have had this updated two days ago, but fanfiction was being stupid. BUT HERE IT IS NOW! Great Depression!**

**Poor Alfred...no self confidence...**

**PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! There is so much more to come! Thank you!**


	15. Chapter 15

"Hey, Artie, why do you look so ticked?"

Alfred strutted over to the fuming Englishman at the party Ludwig Beilschmidt was hosting for the 1936 Summer Olympics. He stood beside a plush sofa, glaring across the room at Francis and Matthew, who stood together, both appearing troubled. Arthur pursed his lips at the approaching American.

"Why do you think? Didn't you see the opening ceremonies?"

"Yeah, of course."

Earlier that day, all the countries had been introduced in the Olympic stadium in Berlin. They all marched passed Ludwig and Germany's internationally disputed leader, Adolf Hitler. There had been a lot of controversy over holding the games in Germany, particularly in America. However, Arthur couldn't deny that the venues were spectacular and the people were friendly toward the foreigners, and that's all that really mattered at the moment. Though, he remained resentful of the Frenchman and the Canadian, after they gave the German and his leader what he would consider the "Nazi salute," ignoring the fact that Francis insisted it was only the Olympic salute.

"How _dare_ they. Next thing we know, they'll be goose stepping and kissing Hitler's arse too."

Arthur huffed on about his concerns angrily, before Alfred clapped him on the back, grinning broadly.

"Aw, settle down, Artie! I'm mad too, but there's no need to ruin a perfectly good party! Just relax."

Arthur looked disapprovingly at his American friend, deciding it better not to continue his complaints.

They traveled to the other end of the room, weaving through people to reach the bar and a more socially respectable place to converse. They both leaned coolly against the bar, greeting their surrounding bodies.

"Oi! Vash! Congratulations, mate."

The man that was passing by stopped, looking at Arthur and Alfred with bored, almost angry green eyes and an everlasting scowl. He nodded to both of them, thanking Arthur for acknowledging his gold medal for flying a glider across the Alps.

"Mm, thank you, Arthur."

He was about to move on, but paused and looked behind him at the young girl who had just grasped and tugged on his hand.

"Ah- Arthur and Alfred, I want to introduce my little sister, Lili, to you. It's her first Olympics."

The two men looked down and smiled at Lili, the barely teen-aged girl who resembled her older brother, with not only her bobbed haircut, but with her facial structure and eyes, though they were less severe and loathing of others. She cracked a shy smile up at them, her feeling of intimidation showing quite plainly. Arthur opened his mouth to greet her, giving her a kind expression.

"Hullo, Lili, I hope- "

Unfortunately Arthur was unable to finish his thought before he was stopped by Alfred, suddenly swooping down to kneel before the timid girl, taking her smaller hand in his own, and gazing up at her.

"Lili, you say? Allow me to contradict an Englishman in saying that a rose has hardly a chance of smelling as sweet, even if you wrap it up in the most romantic of words. I am truly honoured to be in the undivided attention of such a divine woman such as yourself, Lili Zwingli."

And with that, he placed soft lips to her hand, closing his eyes to bring more emotion to his words and actions before standing back up.

Alfred's expressive words and kiss brought a bright blush to Lili's face, confusion and a hint of angered shock to Vash's, and something between humoured and surprised to Arthur's. Her brother took that moment to tug her along, disapproving of Alfred's actions.

"What the hell was that?"

Alfred smiled at the Englishman.

"I was just being nice."

"Yes, but _I'm_ supposed to be the poet. You can't use Shakespeare to your advantage, that's my job."

The American laughed rather loudly.

"Well, sorry, she just seemed so awkward, and women love that sort of writing."

"You know that's because Vash is awkward. He's probably going to kill you now."

"Nah, he wouldn't."

Arthur chuckled at Alfred's behaviour, secretly appreciating it, as he turned around to get another drink.

"I can't wait for baseball."

The Englishman sighed at Alfred's comment.

"You're all on your own there."

"Hey, come on! You've never even tried it!"

Arthur turned back around, bearing a new gin and tonic.

"Shouldn't it tell you something if the only teams playing are American?"

"Shut it, Artie, it's only for demonstration. Besides, only Americans can show the world how _real_ baseball is played."

"Sure."

The two men exchanged humoured expressions, moving away from the bar as soon as they saw Francis approaching with Matthew.

They found a dark, secluded corner of the room; a place where the light barely shown on the leather cushions they settled themselves on. From their seats it seemed as if the chatter from the rest of the party goers was mere background. Arthur leaned in toward Alfred, trying to keep his voice low. Alfred, in return, listened closely.

"I don't like this. Ludwig, I mean. He's up to no good."

"I know, Arthur, you've told me- "

"Alfred, listen."

Arthur shifted in his seat.

"You know his precious leader is trouble."

Alfred recoiled and removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

"It's not my problem, Artie. I'm sorry. What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know. And have a look at the Vargas brothers. I don't trust them. It's fascism, Alfred. We're in for it."

Alfred sighed and rose from his seat.

"I'm not here to talk politics, Arthur. It's the Olympics for heaven's sake; try to at least enjoy yourself."

Alfred waved a dismissive hand to Arthur and turned away, finding his way back to the party.

* * *

**Ah! I haven't updated in what seems like ages! Sorry it isn't a more exciting chapter, unfortunately life tends to get in the way of my writing.**

**So I wanted to do a longer piece on the 1936 Olympics, but I had to stop myself. Here's a little taste though! Basically, Arthur seems to be the only one that has an inkling about what Ludwig is up to. Hmm, very curious. _AND_ I wanted to introduce Vash and Lili! Why? Because it was Liechtenstein's first Olympic games!**

**Sorry for again for the lack of updates! I've already started more exciting bits *cough WWII cough*! STAY TUNED!**


	16. Chapter 16

The wind blew hot air down Arthur's shirt, un-sticking his sweat soaked clothing from his skin for a brief moment, before it clung to his figure again. He rode along in his car, allowing the air to push his hair out of his face, deciding that it was unbearably humid and preferred weather in Britain to the weather in India. However, he knew that due to India's disobedience to Great Britain, a visit was necessary.

He saw the tent his host said she would be in, among many others and standing individuals. He waited patiently for the car to pull up, though he was impatient and desired to get out of the sun a quickly as possible. Arthur leapt from the car, once at a stop, and told his driver to wait as he made to enter the tent.

"Jagvi?"

He swept open the curtain and stepped inside, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting.

A woman looked up, her brow angled and her eyes immediately looking Arthur over. She sat with a straight back, and her neck arched ever so elegantly with her hair pulled back into a long braid. She remained silent and held a suspecting expression on her face as Arthur approached her.

"You look stunning, my dear, as usual."

He stood behind her and leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek, but found himself unable to when she turned her face away.

"No affection? I see…"

He stood back up and walked around to her front.

"I hope you've realized why I've come, darling. I've been hearing about how naughty you've been."

She looked up at him, furrowing her brow slightly. He pursed his lips together.

"Now don't give me that look. Rules are rule, Jagvi, and you must obey them, that's why they're there."

He looked about the room.

"Where do you keep your drink, love?"

"I don't drink."

Arthur stared at Jagvi for a brief moment before sighing.

"That's ashame..."

He stepped up in front of her, lifting her face to look at him with a hand.

"I really am disappointed in you. You have so much potential. Why can't you just be a good girl?"

In a calm voice, she responded, letting him touch her.

"When you stop treating my people and I poorly. You ask them to pay more money then they could possibly have at once. And you act like you're a god to me and you can do as you please with my body."

Arthur gave her a smug grin from above her, disregarding most of what she said.

"And why can't I? You are such a pretty girl."

He suddenly bent down, coming face to face with her, their noses merely centimeters away from each other. He cupped her face with his calloused hand, letting his thumb trace over her soft lips. She breathed through her nose, her body stiffening at their closeness. Arthur leaned in and let his lips brush against hers before capturing them fully. He pulled away, not appreciating the fact that she didn't respond to him, not even negatively.

He frowned.

"I don't think I like you like this."

And with little hesitation, she responded to him.

"We can't all be as inventive as America. But give me some tar and a chicken and I might follow his lead."

Arthur heart fell to the pit of his stomach, his mind racing to think up a response. He released her face and stood back up, giving her a disgusted look.

"Stupid little bitch. If you were a man I'd knock your teeth out."

He turned to leave, but stopped, glancing over his shoulder.

"Don't expect your salt tax to be any cheaper."

* * *

**Ah, so we finally get to see our dear Arthur being quite the enemy in the situation. It's obvious that he's being unfair to India, and I wanted to put a bit of a sexual twist onto it, since it is Arthur after all. **

**There isn't a lot of detail in terms of history, to be honest, it's mainly because I'm so freaking stoked for WWII.**

**Stay tuned! WWII is next! Wooo! Thanks for reading and PLEASE REVIEW!**


	17. Chapter 17

"What are we going to do, Arthur? I don't trust him."

"I know, I know, Francis, but this should hold him off."

Arthur paced back and forth in Francis' office in Paris. The two had just finished meeting with Ludwig, finally deciding to give the German the rest of Czechoslovakia.

Tension had been growing once again among the European nations and Asia. Ludwig decided to reclaim his lost territories, breaking the treaty he had signed not to many years ago. Therefore, the French and British nations had to deal with his antics, trying to sort it out peacefully to prevent war.

Francis shifted nervously in his seat, a distressed look on his face.

"I told you he was going to rise again…He's going to invade France."

Arthur stopped in front of the Frenchman and pursed his lip.

"Shut it, we'll have this sorted out."

"But Arthur! You know he's going to try to get his brother back!"

Arthur clenched his teeth.

"I. _Know_. Francis."

He stepped over to Francis' desk, picking up a small sculpture of a horse in mock interest. Francis sighed.

"And look how Roderich responded to- "

Francis was interrupted but an aggressive growl from Arthur and the violent bang of the horse sculpture that was sent sailing across the room.

"Don't you _dare_ mention Roderich Edelstein's name in my presence! That no good, _fucking_ bastard! I should have known he'd give into Ludwig's lies!"

Francis tried to cut in, but Arthur talked over him.

"Now he's going to be marching around with his goddamn head up his ass like the fucking Nazi twit that he is!"

"Arthur…Please calm down…"

Arthur placed his hands on the desk and hung his head down, sighing heavily.

"You're right…I'm sorry. I just can't believe this is happening."

There was a long silence before Francis spoke up softly.

"Then should we make the most of this moment?"

Arthur looked over at his ally, deciding how to answer. Francis rose from his chair and stood to the side of the Englishman, leaning on the desk as well.

"Who knows when we'll get another opportunity…"

He lifted a hand to turn the others face to him. Arthur gave him a blank expression, his eyes giving him a quick look up and down.

"We might be involved in a war soon and the first thing that comes to your mind is when you'll have sex again. You're sick."

Francis' lips formed a small smile.

"Just once more, Arthur…before we throw our lives away."

* * *

**Ah, the brink of WWII, how exciting. I hope you enjoyed Arthur's mini Roderich freakout.**

**The next chapter is coming soon, thanks for reading and PLEASE review!**


	18. Chapter 18

Labored breathing and panting accompanied by the distinct smell of sweat and bodily fluids filled the room. Arthur and Francis held each other, matching one another's motions, keeping rhythm.

Arthur closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest lazily on Francis' shoulder as his own jerked up with the Frenchman's movements. He wrapped his arms around the other's neck, gripping it pulsatingly with his fingers. He was lost in the moment, feeling a combination of both ecstasy and exhaustion. Arthur's lips parted to release an unsteady breath against Francis' sticky skin.

"Stop kissing my neck."

Francis brought his head up, removing his wet lips from the other.

"What's wrong?"

"Just don't kiss me."

Francis gave a small nod, frowning and continuing to stimulate both of them.

The panting increased, the pair trying there best to keep steady until they finished rather routine, dull manner. They were pulling apart when Francis leaned down to the Englishman's ear.

"Arthur…If this doesn't turn out like you say it will…I want you to know I love you…"

He touched his nose to the other's ear, inhaling and nuzzling him gently.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course it will turn out like I say."

Arthur pushed Francis from him, reaching for his clothing strewn across the floor.

"Besides…Alfred is sure to help."

Francis watched Arthur with uneasy eyes.

"You can't put all your faith in him."

"Oh shush, I'm not. I can deal with Ludwig with some help, but if Alfred assists me, it will make everything easier and a lot less boring."

• • •

September 1, 1939

Arthur and Francis sat around a conference table early in the day. They had received word on Germany's and Russia's invasion of Poland and, as a result, declared war on the German nation. They knew their enemy was strong and were prepared to fight, no matter the cost. It was the price of freedom. The answer was clear.

Arthur looked up from his hands.

"Any word from Feliks?"

Francis shook his head, staring at the table.

"No…you don't think he's…"

"I don't know…"

Arthur sighed as Francis' voice started to shake.

"I- I just feel so bad…We could have helped him!"

"Be quite, Francis. There's nothing we can do now. Besides…What were _you_ going to do?"

The two sat in silence for a brief moment before a knock came at the door.

"Sir, your plane is ready."

• • •

September 2, 1939

Francis and Arthur entered the living room of a lower class Romanian's home, a few miles from the Romanian capital of Bucharest. It was musty and dark inside, and the entire family sat together, watching the two strange men closely. The pudgy woman, who was showing them in, quickly introduced them to the few older girls sitting on the ground. Arthur nodded his head to them with a distracted face, while Francis did the same, but with a slight smile and wave. The girls giggled and turned their faces away as the men were lead to the kitchen.

Regardless of what else was in the kitchen, the body lying on the table was a new installment. Arthur stopped from the shock of seeing it.

"Good god…"

Francis grabbed the end of Arthur's jacket, looking away, cursing in French.

A familiar Romanian woman, thin and beautiful, with long, fluffy blond hair stood by the bloodied body, motioning them to come in.

Francis closed the door behind them as Arthur approached the table.

Feliks Lukasiewicz laid with his eyes half lidded. His shirt was pulled open, revealing the heavy amount of gauze and wraps applied to his chest, red seeping through. Dried blood clogged his nostrils and gathered at the corners of his mouth, making his bruised face look even more sickly. His hands, along with his feet were wrapped; any bare skin was dirty and sweat covered.

Arthur tilted his head to look into the Polish man's face.

"Feliks…I'm sorry, mate…We were too late."

Feliks' lips parted as he tried to speak. His voice was raspy and hoarse. The woman rushed over with water and lifted his head to help him drink it. Liquid overflowed and dripped down Feliks' face, but he didn't care as he looked at Arthur to attempt speech again.

"There's nothing you can do now…Ludwig and Ivan- "

He paused for some air, and Arthur decided to cut in, not wanting the man to talk too much.

"I know. Francis and I've declared war. Just hang in there, mate…Hang in there."

The Romanian woman stepped next to Arthur.

"He was shot in the chest and he tried to walk most of the way here. I don't know what exactly those creeps did to him, but they nearly killed him."

Her voice cracked as she spoke. Francis, who had made his was around the table, immediately drew her to his chest.

"I just don't know what's going to happen."

She clung to Francis and began to cry into his chest. Francis cooed her, stroking her heaving back. Arthur pursed his lips and glared at the Frenchman who smiled cleverly back at him.

"Come on, Francis, let's go. We have a lot of work to do. I won't let them do the same thing to me."

• • •

June 3, 1940

"Alfred! I'm telling you that we _need_ you! Francis, is going to surrender to Ludwig and his brothers! Please!"

"Artie, I'm telling you I can't. I have to put America first. America need to be protected. I can't afford to get involved in European affairs again."

Arthur's hands shook. He had the urge to slam the phone back onto it's holder, but restrained himself.

"F- Fine…I can't force you to join, but Alfred…We need you. _I_ need you."

"I understand that, but you gotta understand me too."

Arthur sighed again, licking his dried lips.

"Okay."

"Good. Now listen, I've got to run. Keep your head up, Artie."

And just like that, he was gone.

• • •

Speech to the Public, June 22, 1940

Arthur stepped up to the podium overlooking a mass of people. He swallowed, ready to give his prepared speech to them.

"We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I will say: It is to wage war, by sea, land, and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. _That_ is our policy."

He paused a moment, looked straight into the eyes of the people he was serving.

"You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be."

"The country should prepare itself for hard and heavy tidings. I have only to add that nothing which may happen in this battle can in any way relieve us of our duty to defend the world cause to which we have vowed ourselves; nor should it destroy our confidence in our power to make our way, as on former occasions in our history, through disaster and through grief to the ultimate defeat of our enemies."

"I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once more able to defend our island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone."

The words echoed over the crowd and in his head. The sky was grey, and he knew there was a chance of rain. However, he figured he could deal with the rain. Germans were worst.

"At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty's Government — every man of them. That is the will of the nation. The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength."

"Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the new world, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old."

He paused again to allow the people to cheer and clap. A sense of relief washed over him as he continued.

"However matters may go in France or with the French Government or with another French Government, we in this island and in the British Empire, will never lose our sense of comradeship with the French people. If we are now called upon to endure what they have suffered we shall emulate their courage, and if final victory rewards our toils they shall share the gains. And freedom shall be restored to all. We abate nothing of our just demands—Czechs, Poles, Norwegians, Dutch, Belgians, all who have joined their causes to our own shall be restored."

"The Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be freed and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands.

The intensity in Arthur's chest built. Something in him made him want to burst out crying, but he knew that must be now or ever. Times, as turbulent and awful as they were, did not need another sobbing person, but rather a strong, hard headed one such as himself. One that could stand up to Ludwig and kick him down.

"But if we fail…"

The crowd grew silent and attentive. Arthur gripped the sides of the podium with sweaty hands.

"Then the whole world…including the United States…including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new dark age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us ,therefore, brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say:

"_This_ was their finest hour."

• • •

October 16, 1940

Arthur leapt into a nook created from the ruins of a destroyed building. He lifted his shirt to cover his mouth, coughing through the smoke occupying the air, and crouching down to cover his head from flying debris. The echoing, everlasting sound of bombs being dropped on Great Britain shook the ground he was on. A thick layer of dirt covered his face and hands, and he was fairly sure he was bleeding on his forehead, but had the sense not to touch it with filthy hands.

Suddenly, the pavement in front of his burst into a million pieces, partials of rock and dirt being shot at high speeds every direction. Arthur shielded his face, feeling bits hit his body.

This was the second day the Luftwaffe had dropped bombs on the small island country, and already, thousands were dead. Arthur swore Ludwig would pay, but for now, the struggle to survive bombs was more important.

The lone Englishman hopped from his hiding spot, deeming it particularly more unsafe than other potential spots. He trotted down the broken, gray street, keeping an eye out for a better place. He stopped to catch his breath, liquid he assumed was blood finally dripped its way into one of his eyes. He tugged on his shirt to wipe his eye.

The city seemed very still now; only the far off booming of bombs was heard. Arthur assumed it was around early morning. He'd have checked the time, but his watch was shattered earlier in the night.

Arthur spun around. He heard rubble fall and someone's difficult breathing.

A small boy made his way toward Arthur.

"You're not a German, are you?"

Arthur looked down at the dirty, scraped up youth, and seeing that he was alone.

"No, of course not. We're only being bombed, lad. Where's your family?"

"Dead, sir. Well, mostly dead probably. I don't know where my sister went, but a man said she's probably been blown to bits by now because the Germans hate us English people."

"God…"

Arthur crouched down and pulled the boy into an embrace, burying his face in his tiny shoulder. The fact that the child seemed so unphased, yet so tolled over the course of two days made the Englishman sick. He wanted to tell him that his family was sine, that everything would be fine, but he hated to lie to the boy. He pulled back, to look at his face.

"How old are you? What's your name?"

"I'm Roger Owen, sir. I'm nine this year."

Arthur laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Well, Roger Owen, how about you come with me?"

The boy nodded.

"That would be great, sir! To be honest, I was going to follow you anyway, even if you were a no good German, because I don't what to die alone."

Arthur stood.

"Well, I'm privileged then. Come on."

Arthur began leading the boy through the ruins. It was eerie and very quiet, sans the rubble moving underneath their feet as they walked. It seemed slightly lighter out, but he couldn't be sure. For all Arthur knew, it could easily still be two in the morning.

"Sir?"

"Yes, lad?"

"Are you going to fight the Germans too?"

He glanced down at the child who was staring up at him curiously.

"Of course, don't be silly."

"When's America going to help us? They could beat the Germans in a day at least."

Arthur raised a brow, smiling a little at the boy's comment.

"Oh? You think so? I think America is busy right now."

"With what? I thought they were our friends?

Arthur reached up to touch his head, flinching a little.

"They are…They just…Don't want to get involved. Yet."

"Well, I think they should. Because if they don't, the Germans will invade and take over the world. They we'll all be speaking German and Italian and walking funny."

Arthur paused a moment.

"Where are you getting this from?"

"My father and older brothers."

Arthur stopped and turned to the boy.

"Do you believe everything you hear?"

"Well- "

"How do you know I'm definitely not a German?"

The boy looked up at Arthur and shrugged uselessly.

"Exactly. Why not form your own opinions, lad? That's what intelligent people do. If you regurgitate everything your mum and dad ever taught you, how are you going to be an individual thinker?"

"Well…They do things because they love me. They took the money I've been saving- "

"They took your money?"

"It was for the war!"

Arthur threw his hands in the air.

"Fuck the bloody war! It was your money! You can't just let them take your money!"

"How do I get it back?"

"I don't know! Throw their tea out the bloody window! Do something! Just stand up for yourself and what you believe in! Not any of this other bullocks!"

The small child coward slightly as Arthur cooled down.

"I'm sorry, lad…I'll find you some food."

* * *

**WWII! Finally! **

**Yes, I did put a sex scene in there. Seems to be a little more than just sex to our dear Francis, eh?**

**And we have poor Feliks finally introduces. Romania was where the Polish troops all fled to when Germany and Russia invaded.**

**Let's see...And Alfred and his America First Policy. Don't worry, we'll be seeing _a lot_ more of Alfred next chapter, I know it's been a while.**

**I do not claim to own the speech that Arthur gave. It is indeed Mr Winston Churchill's words, I just couldn't put it better myself. I love Churchill! My second favorite person behind Patton (who Alfred may steal some words from). *grins***

**And alas! How ironic, Arthur...**

**I'm not changing the rating to M. I figure one vague sex scene in 17 chapters isn't going to scar anyone. However, if you disagree, I'll change it for you.  
**

**PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! They keep me going! Thanks for reading!  
**


	19. Chapter 19

Arthur paced his front hallway. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he turned on his heel, walking back the other way. His hands fumbled with a crumpled up sheet of paper that held a list of casualties in North Africa.

"You look like a Jerry, walking like that!"

Arthur swiveled around to the archway separating the hallway to the living room. In it stood a young boy, resembling the Englishman closely. He sported a well polished British Naval uniform and had his hair combed over (against his will).

"Peter, there's no need to talk so loudly. You must use you're indoor voice."

The boy skipped up to Arthur, ignoring his correction.

"When is Mr. Jones getting here? I've been waiting for nearly a century already!"

Arthur pursed his lips and straightened Peter's shirt.

"He should be here soon, lad. Just be patient, and more importantly, on your best behaviour."

Peter batted Arthur's hands away.

"I know, I know! I just want to meet him!"

"Peter, what did I say about your voice level?"

The Englishman gave the boy a dangerous glare, resting his hands on his hips. Peter recoiled into himself, looking down at the ground, now speaking in a quiet voice.

"To keep it at an indoor level, sir."

Outside, a car pulled in front of the house. Peter immediately perked up and went racing to the door, swinging it open.

"He's here, Mr. Kirkland! He's here!"

The boys leapt up and down once, beaming at Arthur and then back out the door again.

Arthur heard car doors slam and steps being made toward the house. He finally saw him. The man they'd been waiting for so anxiously.

Alfred stood in the doorway, giving his award-winning smile to Peter and saluting him accordingly.

"Nice to meet you, Peter Kirkland."

"You too, sir!"

Peter grabbed Alfred's significantly larger hand and pulled him inside excitingly. Alfred kicked the door closed behind them, now looking at Arthur with a humoured expression. Arthur gave him a slight smile back, but tried to remain professional in his military attire.

"Alfred, I'm assuming you made it here safely?"

Alfred stepped up to Arthur, throwing an arm around him.

"Sure did! America's gonna help ya, Artie!"

Arthur was taken by surprised by the American's sudden closeness, expecting a salute or a hand shake instead. Peter ran up to Alfred once again.

"Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! I fought off the Germans!"

Alfred released Arthur and crouched down to Peter's level, grinning.

"You did? All by yourself? No help from this old man or anything?"

Alfred nodded back to Arthur, who tried to suppress a smile. Peter shook his head.

"No! Their wolf packs are no match for me! I've been fending for Britain all by myself!"

"That's great, Peter. We need more men like you."

The boy's smile widened as Alfred rose back to his feet. Arthur cut in.

"Peter, I think it's about time you get ready for bed. You've got to go back to the base tomorrow."

The young boy looked up at Arthur with a pained expression.

"But-"

"No, off to bed. Come on, Alfred, in here."

Arthur led the other into the dining room, off the side of the front hallway. They both pulled up chairs and sat around the table. Alfred removed his glasses to clean them.

"So, Artie, how've things been? War wise."

Arthur released a sigh.

"Bombings nearly every night…Cut my goddamn eye open."

He made a gesture to the now fading scare on his brow.

"Francis is in horrible condition. Everyone's in horrible condition for that matter…"

Alfred put his glasses back on, blinking his blue eyes.

"What about the Soviet Union? Two fronts, eh?"

"Yeah, I'm hoping that will take some of the pressure off me, to be honest. Ivan's got more men then he knows what to do with. Throw them at the Germans I suppose."

Alfred leaned back in his chair, throwing his arms behind his head, his shirt outlining his muscles on his chest.

"Well, don't worry, I'm here now, Artie. There's no way Ludwig and his Nazi thugs can win now."

He gave Arthur a toothy grin. The Englishman gave a slight nod.

"I only hope you're right. But you've got Japan to deal with too."

Alfred frowned. It wasn't more than a week and a half ago that the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour in Hawaii. Luckily for Alfred, he was in Washington and unscathed physically, but the very thought of Kiku Honda or his people got his blood boiling.

"Yeah…I let those Japs have it, if it's the last thing I do."

"Fair enough, I suppose."

There was a long silence. Arthur tapped his bruised fingers on the table.

"I'm going down to North Africa."

Alfred looked up.

"To stay down there?"

"Yes. I need a change of scenery. I think the tank life will do me some good, after going though countless air raids, I mean."

Alfred rested his head on his hand.

"So you're just going to leave me up here?"

"No. I want you to come with me."

Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"Really? That'd be interesting. I can send tanks down there."

"Perfect. Montgomery's been taking on Rommel single handedly after kicking the bloody Italians out, but the more the merrier."

The American let out a humoured huff.

"How hard was that? Kicking the Italians out?"

Arthur smirked.

"I don't even think Feliciano knows how to fire a gun to be honest. Ludwig had a fit, _that _was plain to see. Personally, I'm glad the Vargas brothers are complete dumb-arses."

Alfred nodded in agreement.

"Though, all the parties I've ever had with them, they seemed like good guys. A tad odd, but decent."

"It's a shame really."

• • •

Arthur and Alfred emerged from the dining room, both a little tipsy from the drink they'd had. Arthur gripped the other's shoulder.

"You have a room upstairs if you want it, lad."

"Thanks, Artie."

They made their way to the stairs, only to find a sleeping Peter blocking the way. Arthur sighed irritatingly.

"Goddamn it. I should have checked up on him."

Arthur stepped up the first few stairs and swooped down to gather the sleeping child in his arms.

"You need help, Artie?"

"No, I'm fine. Just open the door up there for me, will you."

They traveled up the steps, Alfred following close behind, fearing the chance that Arthur might fall backwards. He opened the door for Arthur and entered after him.

Arthur laid the boy on the bed gently. He turned to Alfred.

"Can you get his night clothes out of that dresser over there?"

Alfred nodded, doing as told.

The Englishman slowly raised Peter into a sitting position and lifted his arms to slip off his shirt, replacing it with his night gown. He moved down to his feet and popped off his shoes, placing them at the foot of the bed quietly, before removing his socks and trousers. He finished by pulling the blankets from under the small body and laying them over top of the boy.

Alfred, watching the entire production, whispered to his ally.

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

Arthur turned his head while tucking Peter in.

"What do you mean? I used to do this to you."

"You did?"

Arthur nodded, leaning down to lay a goodnight kiss on Peter's forehead before leading the other out of the room and closing the door softly.

"Did you kiss my head too?"

Arthur nodded hesitantly, not bothering to look at Alfred, due to a sudden feeling of embarrassment.

"You used to fall asleep in odd places as well. Once I found you outside, asleep in the dirt. I had to clean you up."

Arthur smiled to himself, remembering how small Alfred used to be. Alfred grinned.

"Really?"

"Yep. It was either that, or you wouldn't go to sleep at your proper hour and I'd have to come in your room and hold you until you'd stop screaming. When you got older, you'd bitch unless I let you sit on my lap and I told you a story. Then you'd be out and I had to carry your heavy arse back to your room."

The American let out a laugh.

"It's funny how you remember so much, Artie."

Arthur looked up, lifting his eyebrows innocently.

"Well, I _did_ raise you after all."

A hand clapped the Englishman on the back.

"Ya know, Artie, you really weren't as bad of a dad as I used to tell you. Just want you to know that because I think it's important."

A intensity built in Arthur's chest. He felt touched by Alfred's words; ones he didn't ever think he'd hear, or even plan to hear. He wanted to say thank you. He wanted to say thank you for a lot of things. For coming to help Arthur in his greatest time of need and for the little aspects no one but Arthur cared about. He recoiled his thoughts. A passionate kiss on the lips, or a kiss of any sort wasn't appropriate. Not for this occasion. Sure Arthur had thought about it, in great detail about how he'd finally create the perfect moment for the two of them to meet lips, but he knew the entire idea was completely ridiculous and impractical. Besides, he knew Alfred's views on homosexuality.

"T-Thank you."

Alfred smiled once again.

"Alright then, Artie. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm off to bed."

Arthur's ally walked off down the hall, turning into his room. The Englishman suddenly clutched his side, wincing. He was sure his bandages were blood soaked by now. He turned to the corner of the hallway, in case Alfred happened to come out of his room again, and unbuttoned his coat. Sure enough, the blood from his bullet wound had leaked through it's bandages and onto his shirt.

"Shit."

He hurried down stairs and to the front door, silently as possible. He had to go to the medical aid down the road to have his bandages changes and his wound examined, but Alfred couldn't know. He couldn't know he'd already had two blood transfusions and was in an excruciating about of pain. He had to be strong. For Britain, for Alfred, and what was left of the free world.

* * *

**Alas! An Update! Damn you non working internet! **

**So here we have an introduction to Sealand and America entering the war. It is curious, non?**

**More WWII to come! PLEASE REVIEW, they are my fuel, and stay tuned! Thanks for reading!  
**


	20. Chapter 20

"Arthur! For America to taking a licking like that our first time out- "

Alfred dropped his head into his hands in defeat, not bothering to finish his sentence. Arthur stood across from him, keeping his distance from the distressed American, hesitating to say anything.

The heat of the African desert was getting to the Englishman, lines of sweat running down his body, making him uncomfortably sticky and hot. However, the suspense of having his ally sit in front of him, sulking quietly, made him more uneasy. He wasn't sure what Alfred was going to do. Last time he saw him frustrated like this, he gave his younger brother, Matthew, a bloody nose. He didn't want to risk violence between them.

"Alfred- "

"Don't 'Alfred' me!"

The American glared up from his hands at the other, his brows furrowed harshly over his usually cheerful blue eyes.

"This is your fucking fault!"

Arthur was taken aback. He gave Alfred a disbelieving expression, surprised.

"_My_ fault?"

Alfred stood, leaning over the folding table he sat at, his fingertips pressed against the surface.

"Yes, _your_ fault! You were the one commanding, dumbass! If it wasn't for you, we'd have beaten the Germans at Kasserine!"

Arthur had enough. He learned his lesson a long time ago and refused to take any back talk from Alfred.

He stepped forward, shaking a finger at the other, his teeth clenching in anger and offence.

"You listen to me. Your troops are inexperienced. If anyone knows what they're doing here, it's me!"

"I think you want to see me fail!"

Arthur paused, trying to comprehend what Alfred had just said.

"What?"

Alfred twisted an ugly frown onto his face, something Arthur had never seen him do before.

"Don't play stupid with me! I know you and Francis had a chance to stop this whole war from happening, but you didn't do anything! I bet you pushed Francis around, didn't you?"

Arthur tried to cut in to protest, but Alfred overtook him.

"And I knew that Ludwig tried to make a deal with you to split Europe!"

"I turned him down!"

"BUT WHY WOULD HE ASSUME IT WAS OKAY TO ASK?"

Alfred's eyes bore into Arthur's, his chest heaving.

"Alfred. I didn't accept his proposal. Remember that."

The American asked again.

"He tried to make a peace offering with you! Why? Who's side are you on?"

Arthur had enough. He stepped up to Alfred, the corners of his mouth downturned in a disgusted scowl. He looked up into an unfamiliar face, their noses merely centimeters away from each other. Arthur could feel Alfred's breath on his face and smell the sweat on his body. It was all so foreign to him.

"I want you to listen very closely to me, Alfred."

He spoke in a quiet voice, anger and frustration still audible in his words.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt is no friend of mine, and you know that. You're hysterical right now and need to calm down before you start saying things you don't mean to say."

He gave a brief pause, testing Alfred's willingness to listen.

"I told Ludwig that I will keep on fighting, no matter what the cost, until all the people he has harmed are free. I no longer have the desire to control the world like I once did. I can't stop fighting. Not until you, my family, and my friends are safe. If I fail, everything you hold dear will be gone. Do you understand?"

His green eyes stared into blue ones, unshaken. The American's lower lip quivered, his voice now reduced to a hushed tone.

"I- I'm sorry, Arthur…You're right. That wasn't fair for me to say."

Alfred's eyes darted away from Arthur's, waiting for him to say something.

"Stop looking at me Arthur, you're making me feel like a kid."

"Well, maybe you are one. You sure act like one."

Alfred looked back at the shorter, more serious individual, with an expression of guilt and embarrassment.

"Can we just forget this ever happened? Maybe get a drink? That usually makes you forget, at least."

Arthur's face softened at the suggestion as he struggled to maintain a stern expression. He placed his hands on his hips, tilting his head.

"I don't think you're old enough yet."

A broad and very familiar smile slowly drew itself across Alfred's face.

"So that's a yes?"

Arthur gave a slight nod.

"Sure."

Alfred laughed, wrapping his long arms around Arthur in a sudden and quick embrace.

"Good! Let's get out of here!"

Alfred turned and darted out the opening in the tent. Arthur stood a moment before following, surprised and confused.

Alfred had just hugged him. He hadn't been hugged by anyone in years, at least, and not by Alfred since he was only a boy. What if someone had seen? He wondered if that's why Alfred was so quick to leave, realizing he had done something inappropriate. Arthur felt a slight intensity in his chest, leaving the tent. He assumed the surrounding soldiers had heard the shouting, and now he wondered if they could see their silhouettes from the outside of the tent. He felt as if eyes were staring at him from every direction. He felt vulnerable and that at any second, he could get a message from London calling him out for touching another man and his closest ally at the moment in particular.

He repeated to himself in his head that he wasn't the one that initiated the embrace, and if he were to be questioned, he'd blame Alfred fully. His heart sank. It was the truth, but if anything bad happened to Alfred concerning what happened, he would feel terrible.

Arthur caught up to Alfred, a glass of some hard liquor shoved into his hand. He wouldn't confront Alfred about it unless absolutely necessary. He could wait for that.

* * *

**North Africa! Yay!**

**So here we have Alfred, frustrated and upset about his first combat experience in the war at Kasserine Pass. The American troops had British commanders and...well, let's just say things didn't go as planned and certain British generals didn't make sure they had air coverage...anyway! Moving on!**

**It's also true that Hitler wanted to make peace with Great Britain and "split" Europe with them. However, good old Sir Winston Churchill knew better then to stop fighting. It really is interesting how Hitler had respect for the British at first. He even called off early invasion plans (that could have actually worked) because he didn't want to fight them. Very curious indeed.**

**I hope you enjoyed this rather short, but very important bit of the story. We got to see how Alfred's mouth sometimes runs faster than his brain and dare I say, Arthur and Alfred's Father/Son relationship showing itself again. Hmm...**

**Thank you so much for reading! Tons more to come! PLEASE REVIEW! They let me know whether or not I should keep going and what your perspective on the whole situation is! Regardless, I love hearing from you! Cheers!**


	21. Chapter 21

"Bet I can beat you to Messina, Artie."

Arthur smiled and raised an eyebrow at his American ally.

"Is this a challenge?"

Alfred sat down a bottle of scotch Arthur had supplied. The corners of his mouth turned up into a painfully domineering grin.

"Maybe. If you want it to be."

He placed his lips on the edge of his cup, staring over at Arthur, pressuring him with his eyes alone.

It was the end of their Africa campaign, and the British and American armies had succeeded in chasing the Germans across the desert, earning victory over them through grueling amounts of tank warfare. Ever since the American defeat at Kasserine Pass, Alfred regained control of his troops, and Arthur knew that it wasn't through mere luck and timing that his ally had not lost a battle since. He hated to admit to himself that Alfred was rising up in the world and getting smarter, but regardless, he was still British, and the British didn't have a habit of losing.

The Englishman let out an amused huff, knowing what Alfred wanted his reaction to be.

"You're a cheeky little bastard, aren't you?"

"Whatever you want to call it."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as if to ponder, taking a drag of one of the cigarettes he had been obtaining from the man standing before him.

"Well, I hate to make you feel bad, Alfred. Let's remember who you're up against."

He flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette, smirking up at Alfred with cool eyes, but was met with an obnoxious laugh.

"_Me_ feel bad! Ha! Why, Artie, let's remember who beat you in that foot race the other day!"

A frown formed on Arthur's face. He threw the half smoked fag at the laughing American in defense.

"Shut it! It's only because your legs are longer."

"Aw, come on, Artie!"

Alfred stumbled forward to Arthur, falling into a seat next to him and slapping him, perhaps a little too hard, on the back.

"It's probably just because you're old. But hey! You got Matt! His legs are longer than anyone's I know!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, having the urge to laugh with the other, but managed to remain dead pan.

"We'll see, Alfred. What's important is that Lovino pulls through. And besides, _I've_ got to look after Matthew. Not that he's incapable, but due to the face that he's never shot a German or an Italian before could work against us."

"I know, you've told me about 50, 000 times. You really do have a habit of repeating yourself. It's kind of annoying."

Arthur ignored the American's comment, focusing on finishing his scotch. He was going back home for a visit, but he'd have to go through Italy first.

* * *

The streets of Messina were filled with cheering Italians. They reached out their hands and threw flowers to the passing British and Canadian soldiers, waving American flags and Union Jacks. Arthur waved from his car, feeling triumphant and accomplished; the first time in a long time.

The allies had finally taken Sicily. They had fought hard in North Africa, forcing Rommel back across until he withdrew, and now they were headed to the heart of the problem. To stop Ludwig once and for all.

Arthur turned to smile at the quiet Canadian next to him, squeezing his shoulder with a gloved hand.

"You're doing good lad."

Matthew, surprised, grinned back, his shy face lighting up with Arthur's approval.

"T-Thank you, sir."

"Oh come off it! We're in Messina! And better yet, we beat Alfred! Call me Arthur!"

Matthew nodded as he watched Arthur lean down out of the car and suddenly kiss a local girl full on the mouth in celebration.

"They don't make them bad around here, do they lad?"

The Englishman continued to wink at the other girls and shake hands with whoever shoved theirs in his face first. The entire concept was altogether amusing and utopian-like for him. He couldn't wait until Alfred and his troops arrived in Messina. He intended on rubbing it in his face, knowing it would bother the overly cocky American to no end. For the next few days, it would be nothing but drinking, smoking, and sex…and perhaps some campaign planning. It was just like old times.

He wondered how jealous Alfred would be, if he, Arthur Kirkland, were to have gorgeous Italian women swooning over him and offering their bodies at the drop of a hat. He knew he was letting his fantasies run wild, but the thought of Alfred becoming visibly flustered and upset and wanting him in return was for too delicious to stop imagining.

Arthur's daydreams were interrupted by a sudden uproar of musical instruments, causing him to jump to his senses.

"The hell?"

He jumped out of the car, and began marching up through the halted British troops, trying to find the problem. He reached the front of the pack, only to see a mass amount of American troops, standing in formation, playing American military music on their brass and wind instruments. In front of them all was none other than Alfred, standing tall and proud, beaming at Arthur.

He couldn't believe it. Alfred played dirty sometimes, but a surprise, "I beat you," was just too much for Arthur.

The Englishman, jaw locked and hands fisted, spun to his troops.

"Come on then! Play damn it! March your arses in there!"

Bagpipes and drums started up, their sound mixing with that of the other troop's music. They made their way into the square, Arthur stepping up to Alfred furiously. The American smirked down at the angered man.

"What's wrong, Artie? You look positively pissed."

"You're an asshole, Alfred. And I can't believe you."

Alfred's smile widened, as the other's misery and embarrassment had fueled him more.

"I know, I can't believe me either. Who would have thought that I could have one day done something better than the very experienced Mister Arthur Kirkland himself?"

Arthur was thankful the sun wasn't shining their way, otherwise he would have been blinded by the ridiculous amount of tooth Alfred was showing him.

"This is not the time to be a smartass-"

"Why, because you're upset? You can tell me all about how much you want to gut me after we meet with Lovino. Just look professional, because you know what they say, Artie, 'when you wear a frown, another allied plane goes down!'"

Arthur squinted his eyes at Alfred skeptically.

"Did you just make that up?"

Alfred shrugged.

"I don't know. Is it worth telling my government about?"

Arthur let out a long, frustrated huff before giving Alfred a half-hearted salute and stomped away to fetch Matthew. He was unmistakably angry to say the least. He was angry that Alfred had made it to Messina before him, but what truly set him off was Alfred's stubbornness.

"Come on, Matthew. We're going to meet with Lovino."

The tall Canadian hopped out of the car and followed Arthur back towards Alfred.

"What's wrong, Arthur?"

"You're fucking brother, _that's_ what's wrong. He has a smart mouth and a stick up his ass."

Matthew looked away, rolling his lips inward in an attempt to suppress a smile. Arthur shot a glare over at him, having the sudden urge to throw something and break it.

"What's your problem?"

The lanky man looked back as innocently as he could manage, knowing that what he was about to say might work against him.

"Well, a smart mouth and a stick up the ass sounds like you too."

Matthew bit his lower lip. Arthur's silence was not expected. The Englishman's face relaxed a bit as he pursed his lips together.

"No, that's impossible."

* * *

**A quick update for once! **

**So now we get a taste of the friendly rivalry formed between the British and the Americans during the war, though I'm sure some generals *cough Patton cough* would strongly disagree.**

**Speaking of Patton, I was inspired to writed this chapter the way I did due to the fact that General Montgomery (Britian) and General Patton (obviously 'Merican) butted heads when it came to the invasion of Sicily. They got very worked up about who would make it to Messina first, and when the British troops marched in, the American's were there to greet them. Surprise, surprise!**

**Here is a clip that is a must see from the movie, "Patton:" .com/watch?v=rcnLZlLWbSQ**

**I _really_ wanted to include Montgomery and Patton's exchange of words in this chapter (because it's not only hilarious, but potentially canon), but there is only so much I can take from other works and I'd feel it necessary to create my own. Damn..._so perfect._**

**As for Matthew, I feel like he is the only one that can really see the similarities between Arthur and Alfred. He's Alfred little brother and was raised with him by Arthur. However, something makes Arthur skeptical, or does Arthur force himself to be skeptical? **

**Thanks for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! I love hearing from my readers!**


	22. Chapter 22

"Sì, sì, my friends! Please come in and take a seat! No, no, I'll get up!"

Lovino Vargas rose from his leather seat in his cool, furnished office, spreading his arms wide. A uncharacteristic smile was painted on his usually bored, irritated looking face as he made his way over to the three men standing.

"Thank you very much, my sirs. You save me of many troubles."

He embraced Alfred first, stretching up to kiss his cheeks, then Arthur, then to Matthew, the taller of the bunch, who Lovino just hugged briefly.

"Okay, now you may have seats. I will get cigars and we will talk together!"

He snapped his finger and a servant stepped forward, offering a cigar to everyone in the room.

Alfred and Arthur exchanged looks, both keeping smiles on their faces, even though one was in a state of detest, and overusing their "thank you's." They lit their cigars and smoked, listening to Lovino speak.

"You fine men have no idea how much your efforts benefit me and my people. I am eternally grateful now that I am free from German control. I wish I could convice my twin brother into seeing the hurt and damage he is causing the world, his people, and myself."

Arthur nodded, leaning forward in his seat to put out his cigar. Alfred, in return, raised an eyebrow at the Englishman as Arthur smoothed his uniform.

"I really do apprieciate the hospitaliy and warm and generous feelings you and your people have been showing us, Lovino; however, I'd like to ask you a rather serious question."

"Please, do not hesitate to ask. I am a friend now."

Arthur folded his hands, starting slowly.

"Why is it that you insisted that Ludwig help Antonio Carriedo, if you _are_ so anti-facist as you claim to be?"

The glowing smile melted from the Italian's tanned face, transforming into the scowl that he usually sported.

"That, Mr. Kirkland, is none of your concern right now."

Arthur raised his eyebrows and and shifted in his seat.

"_Actually_, I _do_ believe it is all my concern."

Lovino's free hand balled itself into a fist, his jaw locking.

"It doesn't matter anymore. Antonio is- He is my friend. I asked my brother to ask Ludwig to help him for me, since I couldn't go to Ludwig myself. He agreed..."

There was a silence. The three allies stared skeptically at the unconvincing Italian.

"What? I tell you he is my friend! I do not support facist behaviour, but I do support friends! He is like a father to me. Well, more like an older brother, but it doesn't matter! I help him no matter what!"

Alfred cut it, raising his hand slightly as if Lovino were going to call on him.

"Why couldn't you go to Ludwig personally?"

Lovino rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Please. Feliciano is the only one in this world that can get that bastard to do what he wants. He has Ludwig wrapped around his little finger. It's sick! I tell him that the German is no good, but he is so stupid he could not listen or see that he was doing. I went to Feli and I asked him as a brother, as part of his family, to help Antonio. It is nothing. I do not support facists anymore."

Lovino furrowed his brows.

"I invite you here for food and drinks, not to be interviewed by nosey English and American."

"We're sorry, Lovino, Alfred and I didn't mean to offend you, but trust us when we say that the information helped us immensely."

The Italian waved a hand.

"I will forgive you. I understand; but when you get a hold of my brother, shoot him in the head for me, okay?"

* * *

"Well today was interesting…"

The three allies sat around a table in a hotel room rented for them by the Italians in Messina, sipping from pints of beer lazily. Arthur placed his elbow on the table, resting his head in his hand as he gazed down aimlessly at his nearly empty drink.

"You need more, Artie?"

The Englishman nodded slowly, closing his eyes in an even slower blink. Alfred, leaned over to Matthew, wrapping an arm around his neck and supporting his head on his shoulder.

"Matt…I think Artie wants some more beer."

The sober Canadian sighed.

"Alfred, I think you've both have had enough- "

"Matt, _please._"

Alfred whined, squeezing his eyes shut like a child and sliding his body limply onto the table. Arthur's green, blood-shot eyes looked across at the uncomfortable and concerned man.

"He said please, Matthew."

The Canadian paused for a moment, deciding whether or not it was a good idea to let either of them have more alcohol. He came to the conclusion that it certainly wasn't, but regardless, he reached over and filled Arthur's glass up again.

Arthur smiled as he stuck his face into his pint, sipping it so it's contents dribbled down his chin. Alfred, a witness to this, scooted his chair closer to his ally, whispering to him.

"Hey, Artie, you're getting that all over yourself."

Arthur sat his cup down hard, but with great determination.

"And _you_ are stating the obvious…Alfie."

The American rested his chin on the table, smiling up at the other, releasing short intervals of giddy laughs.

"You just called me 'Alfie.'"

Arthur reached out his hand, extending his index finger in a poor attempt to press on Alfred's nose.

"That's because, you _always_ call me 'Artie,' like I'm your dog or something."

His finger dragged itself down over Alfred's lips briefly before returning to it's job of supporting his beer. Alfred continued to smile.

"You can be my dog if you'd like. You and Feliciano and the kraut and the fucking, _fucking_ Jap."

The Englishman shook his head.

"No, no, not if I have to be a dog with that lot. You don't think I should be a dog with them, do you, Matthew?"

Matthew released a large yawn, stretching his back.

"No, Arthur, I don't think you should be a dog at all."

Arthur flipped his attention back to Alfred, his eyes widening as if he were incredibly surprised, pointing at the man across the table.

"You see that? He doesn't think I should be a dog at all!"

"Not even for me?"

Alfred gave him an imploring look.

"I'd feed you and provide lots of liquor and allow you to be Socialist on Thursdays."

Arthur sat back in his chair, scratching his chest through his half unbuttoned uniform shirt.

"I'll consider it."

"Good."

Alfred reached over and pulled Arthur's pint towards him, taking a gulp from it. Arthur slouched in his seat, placing his hands behind his head.

"Who's dog would you be, Alfred? If I was yours."

The American ran a hand through his parted blond hair.

"No ones. I was already your dog."

The thick brows on the Englishman furrowed themselves with confusion.

"Oh? When?"

"When I was a kid, remember? You abused me."

"No I didn't."

Alfred swayed in his seat, grinning stupidly.

"Yes you did! I was your kid and then you abused me."

Arthur suddenly sat up in his seat, looking upset and concerned.

"God, Alfred…I'm sorry."

Alfred extended an arm forward, clapping the other on the shoulder after two attempts.

"Aw, it's alright, Artie, I still like you. You know why? Because _you_ are _my_ best friend."

He made his point clear by motioning to one another at his mentioning. Arthur leaned forward, talking in a quiet voice.

"You're my best friend too, Alfred. I didn't want to tell you though."

Alfred made an over-exaggerated expression of being taken aback.

"Why?"

"Because, I didn't want you to do something. I can't actually remember to be honest. And honestly, I think we're drunk right now."

Alfred nodded.

"Me too."

Arthur made to stand, grabbing onto the table for support. He swayed briefly before stumbling over sideways, crumpling to the floor. Alfred twisted around to ask Matthew to help, but found that he was sprawled out on the hotel bed.

"Shit, Artie. I don't think Matt can help us."

He slid from his chair and began crawling on his hands and knees over to Arthur.

"Don't move…I can help you."

Arthur raised his head to see the American making his way over. He dropped his head down again, laughing out loud. Alfred sat down next to the other, leaning over him.

"What?"

Arthur covered his face with his hands.

"Nothing, I'm just so bloody pissed right now. I think I'm going to pass out here."

"Do you want me to get you a pillow and blanket? I'll go get you a pillow and blanket."

Despite Alfred's heroic efforts to fetch Arthur sleeping materials, he wasn't able to complete his mission. That night, Arthur slept on the carpeted floor of the hotel room in the clothes he was wearing, leaving him with a very stiff back and neck the next day, let alone a horrible headache. Alfred had the pleasure of finding a space on the bed beside his brother, twisting himself in the blankets in order to find a comfortable position, but finding it difficult to make his way fully to the edge of the bed to vomit properly. Needless to say, it remains difficult for them to remember anything from that night, or at least admit that they did.

* * *

**I'm just on a roll here with my updates. I'm so proud of myself.**

**So here is a bit more of a light-hearted chapter. Or is it?**

**Lovino is very friendly towards the Allies, as he should be, and we get to hear a little about the Spanish Civil War and Ludwig and Feliciano's relationship...from Lovino's point of view.**

**Then we have Arthur, Alfred, and Matthew sitting about drinking. Well, just Alfred and Arthur. You know what they say. You see people's true colours when they're drunk.**

**Thanks for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! Oh, and if you like this story, have a look at my newGermany based fic, _Lessons Learned_, which ties into _Unconditional_.**


	23. Chapter 23

Feliciano Vargas's dark brows scrunched themselves above similarly dark eyes. His mouth opened and shut itself uselessly in an attempt to form words, but failed miserably. He watched hopelessly from the seat he was bound to, trying to reason with the man asking the questions.

"P-Please! He tell me not to say anything! Please!"

He whimpered as the man told him to shut up crudely.

"You have about ten seconds to answer the question, or I'll knock your pretty Kraut-kissing face in."

Alfred stood above the shaking Italian, dressed in only an undershirt and tank trousers. He wore a half amused expression on his normally light-hearted face. His brows bore the determined look of a killer as he squatted in front of his captured enemy. His dog tags hung from around his neck, dangling freely between the two of them. Feliciano recoiled into himself, not liking the sudden closeness of the American. Alfred grinned in his face, showing off his overly white teeth.

"Come on, little buddy, you can tell me."

Feliciano shook his head.

"I want to talk to English."

His request was met with a fist, sending his head backward. Alfred released an amused huff.

"Do you really think that 'English' would be any better than me?"

Alfred extended a hand to pat the side of the Italian's swelling face. Feliciano opened his mouth again, begging the American once more.

"Please- I want to talk to English!"

He choked on his words and flinched, preparing himself for the American's next blow.

"ALFRED!"

The entrance to the tent snapped open, causing Feliciano to open his eyes and Alfred to spin around. Arthur stood dumbfounded, wearing only his trousers and a towel bunched around his neck, obviously in the middle of a shave.

"What the _fuck_ is going on here?"

He lifted an end of the towel to wipe off the remaining amount of shaving cream from his face and neck, stepping into the tent.

Alfred swallowed, furrowing his brow.

"Don't look so shocked, Arthur. He wasn't talking for you earlier, so I thought I'd try."

Arthur's eyes widened.

"For fuck's sake, Alfred! It's eleven at night! You're hitting him!"

Alfred took a quick glance at the bruised Italian behind him.

"You say that like you wouldn't have hit him."

"I wouldn't have!"

The tent opened again, allowing Matthew to enter.

"Is everything alright?"

Both Alfred and Arthur replied with a very definite "no." Matthew sighed and closed the entrance behind him. The Englishman pointed to Feliciano.

"See that, Matthew? That's what your idiot brother did."

"Shut the fuck up, Arthur! You would have done the same!"

Alfred shoved the other on the shoulder, resulting in Arthur giving him a dangerous glare.

"Don't fucking touch me like that, asshole."

Matthew, sensing another brawl between the two, tried to intervene, but was dismissed by both of them.

Arthur sneered at the other, poking his finger into his hard chest as he reprimanded him for his abuse.

"Were you intending on killing him? Good god, you could have!"

"Well, it's done now! I can't do anything about it, Arthur!"

The Canadian, who had busied himself in cleaning up Feliciano's face, finally felt it necessary to do something. Arthur and Alfred normally got along quite well. Ever since they had begun working more closely, they could hardly be separated from each other. Arthur insisted they drink together, and Alfred insisted they latrine together. They shared cigarettes frequently and once, while both incredibly tired, slept on each other's shoulders in a car. However, Matthew discovered that while they had grown significantly fonder of one another, once they started to argue, the Germans would need to drop bombs to get them to stop.

Matthew left the Italian with a wet rag, making his way over to his allies.

"Hey…Arthur."

He was ignored, and he became slightly more panicked as he saw Arthur's body gestures become increasingly violent.

"Arthur! Alfred?"

The two bickered over morals and oaths as Arthur clenched his fists tightly. Matthew waved his hands in an attempt to get their attention. Soon the whole camp would be up.

"Arthur! Hey! Guys, stop it!"

Arthur raised his hand to emphasize a point on Alfred's face. The Canadian, knowing now was a good time, jumped in between them.

"Dad!"

The Englishman's hand slapped him hard across the face. All three of them were silent. Arthur stared up at Matthew in disbelief of what he had just done, and the fact the he was just called dad for the first time in a long time. Matthew turned without a word and stormed out of the tent, not bothering to reseal it.

"Artie…"

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath.

"I'm sorry."

He looked at his still shocked English counterpart. Arthur looked up at him, licking his dry lips.

"No, I am. Fuck."

He threw his hand in the air in frustration.

"I have to go apologize…_shit_!"

"Artie, it's alright."

Alfred grabbed Arthur's shoulders in order to calm him, but his hands were shaken away. Arthur headed to leave the tent.

"No, it isn't. He called me dad."

Arthur picked up a jog, disappearing from Alfred's sight. The American turned to Feliciano before following suit.

"We'll talk to you tomorrow, lover. No more dicking around."

* * *

**A very short chapter, but with little things here and there if you look just right,**

**Feliciano is finally introduced. The whole beating is a play off of the Biscardi Airfield Massacre, in which some Americans took the liberty in killing A bunch of Italian POWs during the Italy campaign.**

**And some added tension between the three allies? Hmm, curious, curious.**

**More awesome chapters to come! Thanks for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! I love to hear what my readers have to say!**


	24. Chapter 24

June 5, 1944, England

Alfred thanked the soldier who took away his finished plate. He shifted on his seat, removing the napkin from his lap and sitting it on the smooth wood table before him. To his left, Matthew was still eating the remainder of his meal, flashing Alfred looks with his eyes, trying to communicate a greater message. The both wore grim expressions on their faces, attempting to ignore the obvious dilemma sitting on the other side of the table.

Arthur stared aimlessly at his untouched plate, letting his cigarette burn between his fingers. He reached forward and lazily brought his cup of scotch to his dry lips, licking them before taking a gulp, finishing his glass. He paid no attention to Alfred or Matthew, but remained lost in his own world of thought. It wasn't until Alfred spoke did he look up.

"Arthur…You need to eat something."

The Englishman shook his head, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"I'm not hungry."

Matthew sat down his eating utensils, exchanging another look with Alfred.

"Arthur, you can't go tomorrow on an empty- "

"Hush, Matthew. I've fought in far more battles than you'll ever have to participate in."

There was another long pause. Arthur stood with his empty glass and wandered over to the liquor bar to replenish his scotch. He lifted the bottle to pour, but another hand, strong and warm, wrapped itself around his own and slammed the bottle down.

"Arthur, no more drinking. You don't have to eat, but I won't have you drunk tonight. Not tonight."

Arthur spun around, coming face to face with the blue eyes he had become so accustom to seeing. His lips quivered and he suddenly blurted out the words he had been containing within himself. He inhaled sharply, waiting for Alfred to respond.

Matthew stood quickly, looking from Alfred to Arthur in a sudden reaction. Alfred blinked and moistened his lips.

"Arthur…I don't- "

Arthur shook his head, speaking desperately.

"No, no, don't misunderstand me. Alfred…Matthew…"

He turned his face to the Canadian, now talking to both of them.

"I don't mean to sound grim…I really- This might be it for me. Tomorrow."

Alfred cut in anxiously.

"Arthur, that's bullshit and you know it!"

"No it isn't! You both are too young to understand some of these things…I've been fighting wars all my life, and I have never come this close to- If this operation fails tomorrow, I won't see either of you again…or Francis."

He swallowed hard, hating himself for seeming so vulnerable in front of his allies. He didn't want to die. Not now, not by German hands, not in France. A million years was too much to ask for, but just a few more hours, a few more minutes, a few more seconds to just look at both of his boys. _His_ boys. To hold them tight and tell them how much he loved them and how sorry he was, for a lot of things.

His eyes started to swell. He reached his wrist up to wipe the small tears, but only cued more of them. He leaned his head forward into Alfred's chest, feeling his arms close around his waist, and for once, he felt comforted by them, no longer hesitant and confused. He gasped for air through his sobs.

"Oh, god! And Peter! He's just a fucking baby!"

He gripped onto Alfred's jacket, burying his face into the collar of his uniform and soiling it with tears.

"Yao will have to look after Hong Kong for me…And there's all my relations in Africa and- Shit!"

Alfred held Arthur close to his chest, allowing the distressed man to cry, just as Arthur had allowed him to do so in the past.

"Arthur…I promise you, that if anything happens tomorrow, if anything goes wrong and we don't make it to Francis, I will take sole responsibility for it."

Alfred let out an unsteady breathe, swallowing.

"And if you do die, I'll see to it that no Nazi son-of-a-bitch walks the face of this goddamn Earth again and Ludwig Beilschmidt is hanged by his feet so I can practice my swing."

Arthur sputtered into the American's coat, looking up at him with tear stained eyes, cracking a saddened smile. Alfred smiled softly back at him, letting the other reach up to touch his face.

"You've gotten so big."

Alfred let out a short laugh, looking down.

"Yeah, maybe I'll even be a bigger ass then you someday."

They both huffed, and Arthur pulled his head down and kissed his temple gently, closing his eyes to shut out the tears. He looked over to the Canadian, who was standing in the same place, but now made his way over to the Englishman. Alfred released Arthur to allow him to embrace Matthew.

"Don't be so modest, Matthew, you're saving the world tomorrow."

Matthew gave a shy smile.

"With the help of you and Alfred, yes."

"Oh, hush. You're the one who set fire to Alfred's house when you two were boys, remember? That's fairly bold in my book. I'm sure you're capable."

The Canadian's smile grew into a repressed, satisfied grin at Arthur's words and Alfred's sudden un amused sounds. The Englishman made him stoop also so he could kiss head, his tears finally subsiding.

He looked up into the faces of Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams and felt a sudden sense of peace with them, and with himself. Whether or not he met his demise tomorrow, he no longer cared. It was as if a burden had been lifted from his aching back and he could now die peacefully.

Alfred reached around Arthur and began finishing the task the other started, but Arthur stopped him.

"No, we'll all be sober tonight."

Alfred grinned.

"That's something I never thought I'd here you say. Sober until we rescue Francis from fascism? Deal?"

Arthur's heart sank. He wondered how Francis would react if he were to die suddenly. Surely he would be upset; after all, they had grown particularly close. Arthur tried to rid his thoughts of Francis. Regardless of the fact that he was saving him, he tried to convince himself that no last words between the two of them were necessary. He didn't care for Francis that way.

Arthur nodded.

"Deal. God knows I'll need it when I see that French bastard's face."

* * *

**So we have finally made it to the eve of D-Day...**

**I was watching _Schindler's List _while I was writing this, and it did not make me cry, but the thought of Arthur telling Alfred and Matthew he loves them because he might fail and die tomorrow made me tear up. Pitiful, I know.**

**There are so many things I want to say right now regarding this chapter and relationships, but I'm stopping myself. **

**I hope you enjoyed my reference to General Eisenhower's letter to his army that stated that he'd be personally responsible if Operation Overlord failed. Alfred's becoming so mature. Just makes me tear up.**

**Now we're off to save Francis! Thank you for reading, there are _many _more chapter coming your way. PLEASE REVIEW because I love you all dearly! **


	25. Chapter 25

Arthur leapt out of the plane, spreading his arms and legs accordingly. It was dark as his body hurled itself down through the night's cold, wet air towards the land below. In the distance, he could see flashes of light shooting into the sky, and he prayed they didn't migrate his way. His count was up and he pulled his cord. The air caught his parachute and he now began his slower decent into Normandy. He held his gun close to his chest, becoming anxious to land. He looked around him and saw the other parachutes gliding down along side of him, allowing him to feel less unsure about the task he had to do.

Arthur knew that when he landed, Matthew would be with him and they'd both have a group of men to command. From their landing spot, which was near Versailles, they could start cleaning up enemy lines and if necessary, wait for the troops coming from the beaches so they could get into Paris. He didn't know how long the invasion would take, nor whether or not it would be effective at all. All he really knew was that in five hours, Alfred would be one man in the 156,000 troops landing on the beaches of Normandy. If Arthur, Matthew, and the rest of the paratroopers didn't do their best to secure a hold within enemy lines, the whole plan could go sour.

The parachutes neared the ground and Arthur prepared himself for impact. They were lucky that no Germans had spotted them like the other paratroopers only a little bit away, and better yet, they had already located at least a cluster of Germans to kill.

His feet touched the Earth and he jogged to remain upright. He could hear distant machine gun fire and the sound of his troops landing without a problem in the soiled French grass. He unhooked himself from the parachute and had a quick look around.

It was very quiet, and the silence made him uneasy. There were buildings a little way off, and he could see the dark figures of trees and shrubbery. Something wasn't right, and his stomach and brain told him so.

He turned hesitantly to the men surrounding him, Matthew being one of them.

"I don't think we're in Versailles."

He paused for a moment.

"Keep ready to fire."

Matthew nodded, finding a more comfortable hold on his gun.

They all crept along in the eerie silence, Arthur leading them. They reached a fence on the out skirts of the dark village, not a light on in sight. The Canadian crouched next to Arthur.

"This is weird. They have to be expecting something."

Arthur nodded.

"An ambush. We have to get into that town though. I have no fucking clue where we are."

Arthur turned to the men squatting behind him.

"Where the hell are my snipers?"

Two men came forward, one British and one Canadian.

"Yes, sir?"

"I want you lads to scope out the village a bit. These Jerries are waiting for us, no doubt. Find them."

The men nodded, giving a dutiful, "Yes, sir," before finding a comfortable spot on the fence to rest their rifles. They placed their eyes on the telescope and began their search.

Arthur waited, wishing he could light up and smoke, but he knew better. Whoever was setting death traps in that village was going to die first.

He looked up into the sky and saw more flashes coming from over a far hill. He swallowed, hoping that the paratroopers landed somewhat safely and kill the Krauts with the machine guns.

"Sir, we found some."

Arthur scooted close to the English sniper as he pointed out all the locations.

"There's a German in the window and whole mess of them waiting down along that street. Up there, in the Churches' bell tower is a bird's nest. I've only seen one pop his head up so far."

Arthur and Matthew exchanged looks.

"Well, there isn't any easy way about this, and I'm sure there are more hiding out."

He clapped Matthew on the shoulder.

"I'll go in first, lad. I want this sniper to stay here so he can take out the bell tower and anyone else posing a threat to us. My team will split up down the roads there. I'll go to the right where all the Jerries are waiting, the other lot to the left. Then, Matthew, once we clear this whole mess out, I want you to follow. We need to find who's in charge of this lot. He probably has a radio. Otherwise, kill all of these little gits and be careful you don't kill civilians."

Matthew nodded, relaying orders to his men. Arthur waved his hand to his own soldiers and began to hurry down the small slope leading to the entrance of the village. He pressed his back against a stone wall, peering over his shoulder. It didn't appear that they had been spotted, but they had to get through the first set of buildings that had a gunman waiting in the window.

He gripped his sniper's shoulder and pointed to the German, giving him the okay to kill him. The sniper assumed position and with one shot and a considerably quiet sound, the German's head flung itself backward, causing his body to follow suit.

Arthur waited to see if any more men came up from the window. He looked back to see if he could make out Matthews soldiers, but found that he couldn't. His spirit slowly began to rise.

He motioned for his men to follow, silently splitting them up and making sure to keep the sniper with him. They made their way through the untrimmed grass to the first building. Arthur peered around the side, wishing it wasn't dark so he could use a mirror. He waved two men forward, ordering them to get to the front of the building.

"Sir."

He turned around to meet one of the soldiers face to face, speaking in a hushed voice.

"What is it?"

Arthur was lead around to the back of the building. The soldier asked him to look through the crack in the window that was closed.

Inside were two Germans, one loading a light machine gun and the other peering out one of the front windows. Arthur knew that they were going to bring to gun to the window, and when they did, his whole plan was ruined. He thought for a moment. He did have a chance in saving it; it was risky, but he had already done more dangerous things in his youth.

He mouthed orders to the men surrounding him, sending them all around the front to wait but one. He peeked through the crack again. The German was lifting the gun to bring to the window. Arthur crouched beneath it with the other man, waiting for the window to open. He kissed the barrel of his gun and felt to make sure his pistol was still with him.

The shutters opened slowly. He waited for the nose of the gun to show itself so he could make his move. If he was correct in his assumptions, the back of the gun should, in theory, go upward enough to strike the operator in the face. If not, he would hope that he was quick enough with his gun to shoot him and the other German before they could squeal too much.

The end of the gun poked itself out of the window. Arthur jumped, grabbing a hold of it and yanking down violently. The German yelled and the sound of the other's boots started across the room, beginning to shout questions and orders in German. Arthur leapt into a standing position pointing his gun into the room and firing at the first face he saw, killing the standing German. The other, now to the side of the machine gun growled as he reached forward to grab Arthur by the neck, but was shot by the other British soldier.

On the other side of the building, gun fire broke out between the two sides. Arthur climbed through the window, followed by the other soldier.

"Check upstairs for any more. I'm moving this gun to the front."

With a small grunt, Arthur picked up the gun and found a place for it at a front window. He took the butt of his gun and broke a hole in the glass, then crouched behind the machine gun. A wicked smile found it's way onto the Englishman's face as he began to mow down a group of Germans coming up the street. The other British soldiers returned fire to men shooting from windows, some of them falling out onto the streets below.

"None up stairs, sir."

"Thank you, lad."

Arthur abandoned the machine gun, but not before he removed the ammunition and threw it on the other side of the room. He threw open the door, his gun loaded and aimed. Quickly, he padded across the street, finding temporary cover in various nooks and doorways. He looked behind him and saw the familiar Canadian soldiers starting to make their rounds on the streets.

Arthur began to kick in doors and ordered his men to search every house, anxious to rid the town of Nazi rule.

"Sir!"

A British soldier presented himself to Arthur, saluting him accordingly.

"Yes?"

Arthur gave a lazy salute back, lighting a cigarette.

"We've searched nearly everywhere. We didn't find any commanding unit, but we did find a radio. Bents is translating. Apparently we're near Creil, which is on the opposite side of Paris then Versailles. Allied troops are scattered everywhere, sir."

"_Shit!_"

Arthur clenched his teeth and looked at his watch. The sun was beginning to rise. He looked to what he assumed to be the North.

"They should be nearing the beaches, and we don't know where the fuck we are."

Matthew approached Arthur.

"We just got word that some of our troops have fought back some more Germans in some towns nearby. We can get to Paris in a few hours if we try."

The Canadian pointed to some German military cars. Arthur smirked.

"Matthew, inform your men to find themselves some German uniforms and put them on. We'll get to Paris."

• • •

„Halt, wo willst du Männer hin?"

Arthur sat crammed in the back of one of the two cars they had stolen from the previous town they were in. He remained silent as their vehicles were stopped by German soldiers going the opposite direction. His finger tightened over the trigger of his gun, preparing himself.

The German translator driving the car answered.

„Um Paris. Unser Kader wurde von britischen Fallschirmjägern einen Hinterhalt gelockt und wir sind alles, was übrig bleibt."

Arthur closed his eyes, hoping the soldiers bought what they were trying to sell. It had been a long time since he had tried to disguise himself as the enemy.

„Ja, wir haben schon Abschuss Fallschirmjäger alle Morgen, kleine Wichser. Ich halte dich nicht, wir sind aus dem Rest von ihnen zu töten."

"Danke, Viel Glück."

The British and Canadian imposters saluted the Germans, waiting for them to climb back into their car and drive down the road. Arthur craned his neck and waited until he saw their heads. He gave the signal and the Allies opened fire, killing them all with in seconds.

„Good job, men. Now let's clear them off."

Arthur spoke in barely a whisper as they hopped out of their cars and dragged the bodies to the side of the road behind bushes and trees to conceal them.

„Just push the car into that ditch, it'll be fine."

They all got back into their stolen transportation, driving off again.

They passed some random, mangled bodies of British troopers, still attached to their parachutes. Arthur merely pursed his lips and looked away. It would have been so easy to have been shot down like many of the Allied troops were, and he was incredibly thankful he wasn't. So far, their plans had gone completely wrong. They had landed in the wrong area of France, they had no way of communication with other paratroopers, Allied commanders, or England, and now they found themselves sporting German uniforms as a means to survive and get closer to Paris. Worst of all, Arthur didn't have a clue whether or not any of the troops from the beaches would make it to Paris at all. Truth be told, liberating Paris was not a center point for the invasion at all. Arthur had nearly begged on his hands and knees to be allowed to launch a special mission to rescue Francis, and last he heard, Francis was still in the capital.

„Stop here."

The cars pulled over to the side of the road.

„What is it, Arthur?"

Matthew asked anxiously, looking at his surroundings. Arthur pointed to a far field.

„There's shooting. Our boys I think. If they are, we surrender to them, because they don't know we're not Germans."

The soldiers all nodded and sat in what appeared to be patience on the side of the road. The other figures drew near, their guns at the ready. Arthur raised his hands, cuing his men to follow lead.

„Stay still or we'll shoot!"

Arthur smiled. They were British. He shouted back.

„It's all right! Don't shoot! We're British as well, and Canadian! Don't shoot!"

„What's your name then?"

„Arthur Kirkland, and this is Matthew Williams."

The men came to a halt in front of the cars, and then lowered their guns. The commanding soldier laughed.

„Shit- I mean, sorry, sirs. Just trying to do our jobs."

Arthur waved it off.

„No apologies, lad. Have you got a radio?"

„Yes, sir."

A soldier pushed forward, offering the bulky device forward. Arthur thanked him and immediately put it to use, signaling other troops. Matthew walked towards Arthur.

„What are they saying?"

Arthur looked up.

„Well, apparently we aren't the only ones strewn across France."

Arthur was silent a moment as he signaled further.

„The beaches! They've held the beaches!"

Matthew grinned, checking his watch. It was late in the day now. They hadn't gotten nearly as far as they wanted to due to the abundance of Germans, but as far as he was concerned, they had made it somewhere and they weren't dead yet.

Arthur gave back the radio.

„Where are you lot off to?"

The other soldier shrugged.

„Don't know, sir. Killing Nazis I suppose."

„Right, well, we're off the Paris."

Arthur saluted him one last time, sending them on their way quickly so they wouldn't be spotted.

He felt slightly over joyed inside. The beaches had been taken by the Allies, and that meant that he had the potential of obtaining more help to fight Germans in Paris. The only fear he had was Alfred. He didn't ask for casualties while on the radio, because he didn't want to know. He didn't know how bad the beaches were, but he had an idea. Arthur shivered. Alfred could be shot in the head, bloodied, and dead on a French beach with hundreds, or certainly thousands of other soldiers, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Arthur turned on his heels, crawling back into the car.

„Come on, lads. Let's go kill some more jerries."

* * *

**Meh, I'm very upset with . Here I am trying to type my end notes with countless D-Day historical tid-bits, and when I hit save, the little fucker tells me to re-login, and doesn't save _any_ of my work. This little kitty is pissed.**

**That being said, I want to update, but am too mad to retype what should have saved.**

**But anywho, thank you so much for reading! We finally got to experience some action again! Jesus! And PLEASE REVIEW! You know I love to hear your feed back!**

**German to English translations:**

**„Halt, wo willst du Männer hin?"  
_Stop, where are you men off to?_  
„Um Paris. Unser Kader wurde von britischen Fallschirmjägern einen Hinterhalt gelockt und wir sind alles, was übrig bleibt."  
_To Paris. Our squad was ambused by British paratroopers, and we're all that remains._  
„Ja, wir haben schon Abschuss Fallschirmjäger alle Morgen, kleine Wichser. Ich halte dich nicht, wir sind aus dem Rest von ihnen zu töten."  
_Yeah, we've been shooting paratroopers down all morning, little fuckers. Carry on, we're going to kill the rest of them._  
"Danke, Viel Glück."  
_Thank you, good luck._**


	26. Chapter 26

"The water was so cold…"

Arthur sat at the foot of Alfred's cot in a make-shift hospital tent somewhere in the Northwest of France. It had been two days since the invasion and any plans to enter Paris and rescue Francis from German rule had vanished. He figured Francis would be fine, and the Allies would get to him eventually; besides, he discovered Alfred's whereabouts and rushed off immediately to find him.

His eyes ran themselves slowly down Alfred, studying every feature, every inch of the body lying so limply before him. He listened to the American tell what happened on the beaches, and he fought hard to maintain an indifferent, military expression.

"We had to attack the pill boxes, but we were let off the boats too early. They just kept firing and firing on us. They wouldn't stop and we were in the water."

Alfred stared aimlessly at the roof of the tent, his blue eyes glazed over as he relived his experience. He licked his quivering lips, shaking his head slightly.

"Soldiers next to me were getting shot. I'd give an order to one, then look over and see his guts spilling out. The water was washing up red."

He covered his face briefly. He was becoming hot and bothered, Arthur could see that. He rose from the bed and went to fetch a cool, wet cloth to place on Alfred's forehead.

"Shh, Alfred, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

The American blinked, looking up at Arthur and coming out of his strange daze. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips slightly parted, making him look fifteen years younger than he was.

"No, I want to, Arthur, because you're the only one who understands."

Arthur smiled gently as he bushed Alfred's fringe out of his face to readjust the rag.

"And you're the only man here with more than enough time on his hands to listen, and Matthew would just sit here and say nothing. Sometimes I wish he could man up a little."

Arthur pursed his lips, raising his brows. It was as if he was talking to a child again, but he knew it was just the drugs working to make the American all loopy.

"Now, Alfred, your brother fought hard as well."

Alfred tried to shift his upper body, wincing slightly. Arthur felt his cheek.

"How's your arm?"

"Sore mostly."

While in the midst of battle with the Germans fending Omaha beach, Alfred had managed to catch a bullet with his shoulder. However, Alfred toughed through it and continued fighting, eventually gaining control of the beach. The fact is, that if Arthur hadn't forced him physically into bed and demand that the medics give him morphine, the American would still be up and walking around.

Alfred reached his other hand up to feel the wound gently.

"You know I'm fine. I feel like your drunk date, Arthur. I always wondered how you've gotten so many women into bed."

Arthur smiled. Alfred looked so innocent. If he wasn't on pain killers, he knew that a large, clever grin would be plastered onto his face. That being said, he also knew that if Alfred was sober he'd either have something witty to snap back with or he'd punch Alfred. Arthur shrugged.

"Well you know, I do enjoy my women loose."

Alfred looked up, catching on and grinning.

"Yeah, but I don't think they'd have to be drunk to be sick at the end."

"That's what you think."

The American winked at Arthur.

"Oh, I know, Artie."

Arthur let out a short laugh before clapping a hand on Alfred's leg.

"God, you must be drugged."

He turned to walk away, ordering a medic to stay by Alfred's side.

The Englishman left the hospital tent and made a beeline to the one he was sharing with Matthew. He was relieved to find the Canadian was not present when he entered, sitting down on his cot.

"Christ."

He buried his face in his hands, inhaling deeply.

Why did Alfred ruin him? Every time he looked at him, he had another selfish desire. He wanted to touch him, feel him, make love to him. Something told him that it was wrong. What would Alfred say if he ever found out what Arthur thought about just when the American was sitting next to him? Arthur knew he'd be repulsed and reject him as a friend, not just as a lover. What was so wrong with liking men anyway?

Arthur looked up from his hands. His palms had added unnecessary pressure to his eyes, making his surroundings somewhat blurry.

He hated this feeling. The feeling of wanting to love someone in an entirely inappropriate fashion; the feeling of not being able to regardless. He wondered whether Alfred felt the same for another person. Arthur had really never seen Alfred with other women before. Hell, even Matthew managed a frequent flirt around Italy and England, but he'd only ever seen a drunken girl throw herself at Alfred, which was hardly sufficient.

Arthur's mind continued to wander. What if Alfred was like himself? Closeting his homosexuality as a means to be safe in such an unfair and bigoted world. His heart sank. Or perhaps he was just a bit more modest about sex then himself. The latter seemed far more likely.

The tent's entrance opened.

"Hey, Arthur."

Matthew entered, sitting across from him on his own cot.

"Are you alright? You look upset."

Arthur nodded his head, clearing his throat.

"No, no, I'm fine…Matthew?"

"Yeah?"

The Englishman paused a moment, licking his lips. He debated whether or not he should ask what his wanted to ask.

"Have…Have you ever seen Alfred with any girls?"

Matthew stared for a second, comprehending what he had just said. It wasn't like Arthur to seem so vulnerable. He started slowly.

"Well, yes, a few."

"Recently?"

The Canadian shrugged, looking lost.

"Arthur, I don't- "

"Just answer the question, Matthew!"

Arthur stood. His voice and body were desperate. He needed answers and had no intention of waiting for Matthew to splutter on like he normally did. However, Matthew followed suit and stood as well, furrowing his soft brow.

"I don't know what this is about, Arthur, but I suggest you take it up with Alfred."

He turned and left the tent, leaving a speechless Arthur.

Arthur didn't know why he thought asking such an odd question was going to help, in fact, Matthew only got upset. Maybe he would just have to wait and see what would happen with Alfred.

Scenarios flew through the Englishman's head. He could see Alfred and himself isolated in a room. The war was over, but the American still wore the all too familiar trousers that fitted the shape of his round bum so perfectly, and his pressed, brown military shirt. They would both draw near to each other, and without words Alfred would lean down to kiss Arthur, a kiss like no other. So seductive, so sweet. Their wet lips pressing together, opening and shutting to allow sucking and an exchange of fluids, as Alfred trailed his hands from Arthur's upper back, to his lower, gripping his hips firmly, holding him near. Heads would tilt, and the kiss would become more passionate, causing the moment to heat itself. Arthur would reach a hand around to the back of Alfred's head, his palm resting under his ear and his thumb holding his cheek. It would be a perfect moment, _the_ perfect moment, but not as perfect as when their lips would pull apart, and Alfred would remove his glasses, then his shirt, letting it fall from his body. His flawless body, so muscled and firm. The Englishman could reach his hands out to touch his broad chest and slide his hand up to his shoulder, and Alfred would welcome it. Arthur would feel self-conscious, because his body was scarred and pale, and red from the sun, and not nearly as impressive. However, with Alfred, he wouldn't care, because Alfred was perfect and would love him, and he'd be his.

* * *

**Whoo! Update!**

**So Arthur and Matthew finally reunited with Alfred, who seems to be in fine condition, sans his bullet wound, and the fact the Arthur won't let him out of bed. **

**Alfred had it bad with the beaches. Omaha was one of the beaches the American Army stormed, and it also proved to be the most deadly and gruesome. Here is the opening clip from the movie _Saving Private Ryan_, which is considered to have the closest reenactment of what D-Day was really like for the men getting of the boats: https:/www. /watch?v=gPA6kRuhKks . I wish I could have gone into more detail, however, I _do_ have to stay on task. Damn.**

**And then we have Arthur, who seems to still be keeping Alfred in mind. I'll stop there, because I hate to spoil things.**

**As usual, thank you for reading! And PLEASE REVIEW! You know I love you guys!**

**Oh, _and_ you all need to have a look at my Germany based story, _Lessons Learned_. It ties into this one, so if you like _Unconditional_ and canon fics, you'll like my new one!  
**


	27. Chapter 27

Arthur paced back and forth in an elaborate guest room in Francis' Paris home. His eyes flicked up at the clock on the wall, checking the time repeatedly. He gave a small, unamused huff. He had arrived in Paris earlier that day after having to wait months longer then he intended to liberate the capital. The truth of the matter was that he hardly helped at all. Francis, knowing that the Allies were landed in France, finally put his foot down and began to shut out Nazi rule in Paris. Of course, Alfred found out and ran off to help him, leaving Matthew and Alfred alone and on edge again.

He checked the time again. 11:47. He had told Francis to meet him in his room nearly 20 minutes ago. Perhaps he wasn't coming after all. Arthur tightened the bathrobe he was sporting. He felt a little whorish, asking Francis to meet him, opposed to the other way around.

A knock came at the door. The Englishman turned quickly, trying to gather himself.

"Come in."

The door opened, allowing the still dressed Frenchman entrance. He closed the door behind him, hardly concealing the amused smile on his face. He stopped and stood a meter away from the other, sticking his thumbs into his fitted blue vest.

Arthur gazed at him with, his lips slightly parted as he stepped toward him, lifting his hands to Francis' face, tilting his head, and kissing him full on the mouth. Francis did not protest Arthur's intentions, and began kissing him back with experienced lips, working the other's with skill and eagerness.

Their breath and fluids mingled as they brought themselves closer, leaving no space between the two. Arthur dragged his open mouth to the stubbled jaw of Francis, closing his mouth to allow his lips to kiss and suck along his face. Francis hands slipped down Arthur's torso to where the sash tied itself to keep the bathrobe from opening.

"This is quite different from the greeting I received earlier, Arthur. You were so cold to me. Can you guess which I prefer more?"

"Shut up."

Arthur moved his hungry mouth back to Francis', sucking his lower lip between his teeth. Francis, after only a few more savoring moments, pulled his head away, surprised and smiling.

"Has it really been so long since you've made love?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes at the Frenchman, pushing away from him.

"Well, unlike you, I've been trying to stay alive and protect my home. I don't have maids in skimpy outfits mucking about to satisfy every arousal I come up with."

Francis laughed a little as he unbuttoned and threw aside his vest, slipping off his shoes.

"No, not that I didn't try my best either…but tell me, Arthur, how often did you come up with an…'arousal?'"

The Englishman huffed.

"That's none of your business."

"But I'd like it to be. All of my business; and if I conduct myself properly, I'm sure you wouldn't hesitate to ask me to work on, or perhaps, _experiment,_ on your _upcoming_ projects either."

Francis tossed his shirt carelessly to the floor, walking over to Arthur who was now seated on the bedside.

"The truth is, Arthur, I missed you a lot."

He kissed the top of his head gently.

"I thought about you often. I'd hear what Ludwig was putting you through, and wished that I had perhaps one more minute with you, to kiss you and tell you everything I could manage."

Arthur took a deep breath, more focused on removing Francis' trousers before him.

"And what would that be?"

Francis frowned, watching Arthur's hands unbuckle his belt.

"That I love you, Arthur, and I wish that you felt the same for me."

His trousers were tugged down, and his underwear followed shortly after. This left no time for Francis to continue before finding Arthur's mouth in a highly sensitive area, silencing Francis once again.

Francis tilted his head, rocking his hips as much as Arthur allowed. He reached down to stroke the Englishman's head.

"Lay back, Arthur…"

Arthur looked up at Francis, pulling his head away, and wiping his chin.

"What? So you can sit on my face? I'm not going to just suck on your genitals."

Francis smiled slightly.

"Then what do you propose? You could lay back and I could do something else."

The Frenchman went to pull apart the robe covering Arthur still, exposing his bruised and somewhat scared body. Arthur shrugged it off.

"My only request is that you go easy. I have a burn all up my side."

Francis pushed Arthur back gently.

"Fair enough, though, you've had worst."

Arthur furrowed his brow, arranging himself on the bed comfortably.

"Yeah, from you, arsehole."

The Frenchman walked back over to his trousers lying on the floor, searching the pockets thoroughly.

"Here we are."

He produced an unopened condom and put it on accordingly, skipping back over to Arthur and jumping onto the bed. Arthur huffed.

"Can you just get on with?"

"Tell me, Arthur, how many people did you see in my absence?"

He hovered over the Englishman, pulling his legs up.

"Did they kiss and make love as well as me?"

Lust overtook Francis' voice as he kissed Arthur's ankle with wet lips. Arthur looked up at the other, rolling his eyes.

"Fuck, Francis, I'll tell you later, just get _on_ with it!"

Francis followed Arthur's orders, causing a wave of the much needed relief they both yearned for. He leaned over the man pressed against the bed underneath him, feeling his hot breath on his neck and shoulder. Arthur gripped his partner's back, encouraging his movements with his hips. It was the moment they had both been waiting for.

The door suddenly clicked open, sending Francis' upper body around and caused Arthur to look up. Matthew stared in with wide eyes.

"Sorry!"

The door slammed shut and quick footsteps were made down the hallway, leaving Arthur and Francis in shock.

"_Shit._"

Arthur covered his face with his sweaty palms.

"Just get off."

"But Arthur-"

"Off!"

Francis slipped away from the distressed Englishman, eyeing him with caution. Arthur sat up, embarrassment and stress written on his face.

"Why the hell didn't you lock the door?"

Francis shifted on his feet.

"There's nothing we can do now, Arthur. Mathieu knows."

"I thought you said he was out drinking with Alfred!"

Francis sat down on the bed next to the other.

"He was…I cannot control where Mathieu goes and doesn't."

He touched Arthur's shoulder, having his hand immediately shaken off. Arthur spoke through his fingers, causing his voice to be muffled and hard to understand.

"What if it was Alfred? Oh god…He'd have- God…"

Francis stood, frowning.

"What if it was? I'm sure you'd have liked him to join."

With that, the Frenchman fetched his trousers and began pulling them on, making Arthur look up with a confused face.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to my own room. It seems my absence only allowed your heart to grow fonder of someone else. Or your desire to sleep with them. I can never tell with you."

Arthur sputtered, his eyes widening.

"Fr-Francis! You know there is no one else, I- I don't know who you could possibly be referring to."

Francis twisted the doorknob. His blue eyes gave Arthur one last biting look.

"Perhaps I'm no longer obnoxious enough for you. I've known you since we were children; I know when you're lying. Your nose twitches like a rabbit."

He closed the door rather hard behind him, leaving a dumbfounded Englishman naked on the bed. Arthur reached up to touch his nose. He felt so suddenly stupid and empty. It wasn't like Francis to leave in the middle of sex. Yes, Matthew walked in on them, but the fact that Francis brought up Alfred was bizarre. Well, Arthur _did_ mention him, but leaving abruptly was just ridiculous. He didn't understand how Francis could see directly through him. It couldn't be so obvious that he yearned for Alfred, yet Francis knew.

Arthur laid back on his pillows. What if Alfred secretly knew? If he knew, then perhaps he felt the same in return. The thought made Arthur shiver. He peered down. He was getting excited again, over thoughts of Alfred.

"Shit…"

He covered his face, inhaling sharply. This wasn't how this night was supposed to go. He was supposed to meet with Francis, have sex with him, and then go to sleep. Matthew was not to discover the relationship he has been secretly having since god knows when. He prayed that Matthew had it in his heart not to tell Alfred. Honestly, he didn't care that Francis left. Sure, he was left unsatisfied, but he knew Francis would be back for more. He said he loved him after all. However, if one bad thing came from this night, he hoped it wasn't Alfred finding out about his homosexuality. Anything, but that.

* * *

**Damn you life for getting in the way of my fanfiction! Gah!**

**So this is August of 1944, after the liberation of Paris. Arthur is finally reunited with Francis, but his intentions don't go as well as he intend.  
**

**As always, thank you for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! There is much more to come!**


	28. Chapter 28

"See, what my boys are going through over in the Pacific is ten times worst then what we all went through a few months ago on the beaches. Every time they need to get onto an island, they've got the Japs shooting at them like fish in a barrel. No good, buck-toothed, yellow bastards are what they are."

Alfred took another large bite out of his buttered toast as he ranted on about the Kiku Honda and what the Japanese were trying to do to America, not paying any heed to his surroundings.

"I swear, Artie, when this war is over…"

He nudged the Englishman to his left with his elbow, stooping down to shovel more food into his mouth.

Arthur stared down at his plate, hardly having touched any of his food. He knew that Matthew and Francis were doing the same thing across from him, though, they had more of an appetite. For once in his life, he didn't mind that Alfred was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the fact that the rest of them weren't eating or even looking at each other.

Francis was right, Matthew wouldn't tell a soul, and he knew better then to tell his brother. He let out a sigh, relieved at least one of the children he raised had some decency and manners. Then again, Arthur was beginning to doubt his own decency; at least after last night.

He didn't know how his relationship would change with Matthew. He imagined that it would be significantly more awkward if anything. However, what was worrying him more was Francis. It irked him that he was bothered so much by last night. Francis would come crawling back. He _always_ came crawling back, why should now be any different? After all, it was Francis who got upset and stormed out of the room, therefore he owed Arthur an apology.

Alfred elbowed Arthur again.

"Artie, are you listening to me?"

The Englishman sat back, stretching his arms upward.

"Hm?"

"I said, how many Nips do you think I'll kill once I get over to the Pacific?"

Alfred's voice contained a hint of irritation as Arthur answered with a shrug.

"I don't know, lad, a lot."

"No, Arthur, you're supposed to guess a number. Jeez, what the hell is wrong with you this morning? We're about to embark on a Kraut killing mission and save the world, and you look hung over even after you said you couldn't go drinking last night because you were 'tired.' Are you mad at me?"

Arthur looked over at Alfred, huffing.

"I'm fine. Don't be so stupid and start jumping to ridiculous conclusions."

The American furrowed his brows.

"But you sound pissed."

Francis took the opportunity to cut it, leaning somewhat forward in his seat.

"Arthur is just cranky from a bad night's rest, Alfred. You'll have to excuse him."

Alfred sat his utensils down, speaking in an upset tone.

"That's some bullshit. I did something wrong. What did I do wrong?"

He looked around the table, from Francis to Arthur and back again.

"Arthur, what did I do?"

"Alfred, you didn't do anything."

"No, tell me!"

He stared at Arthur anxiously, his eyes resembling a puppy about to be reprimanded. It was an expression that Arthur had only seen when Alfred was a young, young child.

Francis stepped in again, trying to convince Alfred that nothing was his fault. Though, Alfred insisted it was a mistake on his part that caused Arthur to be in such a state.

"Arthur, if you'd just tell me, I could make it up to you."

Francis tried, yet again.

"There is no reason to become so flustered, Alfred."

The American paused, biting his lower lip and glaring briefly at the Frenchman.

"I'm not _flustered_, Francis. I'm just trying to find out why my best friend is mad at me, and I'm going to set it right without your weird comments."

He continued, turning to Arthur.

"Anyway, Arthur…I'll make it up to you. When we get to Austria, I'll hold Roderich up so you can punch him in the face. It will be fun, I promise."

"Alfred, I'm telling you, everything is fine, I'm not mad at you!"

Matthew had been observing quietly for a while and finally decided to add to the conversation.

"Really, Alfred, he's not upset at you, he's upset at me, because I insisted he stayed in bed last night to rest, and now he's mad."

"What? But you said- "

The Canadian smiled and waved a lighthearted hand.

"No, really. I promise he's not mad at you."

Alfred looked away and nodded, frowning.

"If you say so, Matt…

The American gazed back down at his plate, picking up his fork to poke at his eggs. His facial expression was troubled, and it caught the attention of everyone at the table. Arthur felt a sudden sense of guilt again. Did Alfred _want_ Arthur to be cross with him? It almost seemed that way. Any normal person wouldn't have pursued the matter nearly as much and would have just carried on happily.

Arthur wouldn't deny it to himself any longer. Alfred confused him. He had met many people in his lifetime that had been hard to read, but not like Alfred. Then again, when he was younger, Alfred was relatively simple. When he was unhappy, everyone knew he was unhappy; but now, he was playing a guessing game.

A sudden loss of appetite wasn't like Alfred. Arthur knew it someone didn't say something, the American would be running on an empty stomach and be groaning all day.

"Eat your food, Alfred."

"I'm not hungry…"

Francis and Matthew kept their heads bowed, knowing better then to get in the middle of one of the Englishman's reprimands.

"You need to eat, or you'll be bitchy."

"I said I'm not fucking hungry, _Arthur_."

Alfred pushed his chair out.

"I'm going to go get washed up."

He stood and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Arthur watched him as he left, dumbfounded.

"What a little git."

"You don't have to treat him like a child, Arthur."

"Shut up, Francis."

Arthur snapped at the Frenchman, gripping his utensils in his hands. Matthew sighed.

"Please don't fight, Arthur…"

All three sat in silence. Their eyes looked in opposite directions until Arthur couldn't take it any longer.

He huffed and spoke up.

"Alright, you lot, let's just- let's just get this straight."

Matthew and Francis peered up at him.

"Now, Matthew, you…Saw what you saw last night, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out."

Francis shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"So let's move on and forget it ever happened."

Matthew nodded.

"I'm sorry I walked in…I should have knocked…"

He stood and picked up his plate.

"And just so you both are aware…I've known for nearly forty years."

He left the dining room for the kitchen, leaving Arthur and Francis shades of red and completely embarrassed. Arthur just hoped that once they started on the road to Berlin, their minds would be taken off of the unfortunate happenings in Francis' home.

* * *

**So, the Allies are about to start on the road to Berlin, but first, we have some awkwardness the morning after the last chapter's little incident.**

**Arthur's noticing odd things and tension is building between the characters...Fantastic.**

**Much more to come! Thank you for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! **


	29. Chapter 29

"Artie, who am I now?"

Alfred turned around to face the Englishman. He only wore boots and a pair of green tank trousers, having only a towel and dog tags slung around his neck. He grinned stupidly as he showed Arthur the shaving cream on his face. He had been taking at least three times longer to shave then necessary, due to the fact that he insisted on forming his shaving cream into different people's facial hair. A moment ago he was Josef Stalin, now, nearing the end of shave, he was Adolf Hitler.

Arthur looked in his mirror to see Alfred, now at the point of true irritation with the American.

"Cute, Alfred, I say you keep that one."

Alfred laughed, and made his way over to Arthur, clapping him on the back. Arthur took the opportunity to elbow his ally in the stomach.

"What are you? Stupid? You could have made me slit my throat!"

"I'm not stupid, Artie, I'm just Hitler."

Arthur pursed his lips and watched as Alfred impersonated the German leader. It wasn't funny. No, maybe it was. Regardless, Arthur couldn't help but crack a smile at the American's antics. He _was_ trying to be a serious as possible. After all, they had made it all the way to Belgium and Germany wasn't far away. However, while they weren't in a meeting or out trying to survive, Alfred always managed to do something silly and get a laugh out of Arthur. He secretly wished that he had it in him to joke about with Alfred, but he knew he'd never do it; not here, not now. He knew it was because 'just joking about' wasn't his intentions. Not even slightly.

Arthur had thought it over and over in his mind, though not even a minute had gone by. He found himself doing this constantly. Every time he saw him, while he was alone, before he went to bed, when he awoke, and sometimes, if he was lucky, he'd show up in a dream. He no longer shielded himself from the thoughts, perhaps it was because he's had them for years now and he no longer felt ashamed. He would only feel ashamed if he actually did one of the. At least, that's what he told himself. Then the thought of Alfred responding in the way Arthur intended always crossed his mind. Would he regret it then?

He blinked. He had been staring into his mirror for god knows how long. Alfred was already back to his own mirror, directly behind Arthur's, shaving the rest of his stubble and splashing his face with water. Arthur looked at his own face and realized he hadn't even finished half way. A sudden wave of embarrassment came over the Englishman as he scrambled with his blade, being cautious not to cut himself.

Alfred walked over and set his chin on Arthur's shoulder, looking in the mirror with his ally.

"You alright, Artie?"

"Yeah, lad."

No, he wasn't alright, not at all. It wasn't that Alfred's chin was digging uncomfortably into his shoulder, because it was. It was the fact that Alfred's sharp chin was gouging into his shoulder and he preferred it there. He could feel his right peck just barely brushing against his back and it was killing him. It was all there and all he had to do was turn and do it, but something was holding him back. Alfred was teasing him, or at least Arthur hoped he was.

He wiped his blade on his towel as Alfred spoke again.

"Hey, Artie."

"What?"

"What if your hands were my hands?"

Arthur paused momentarily to take in what Alfred had suggested.

"I don't think that would work, Alfred."

Alfred frowned.

"Fine, you don't have to imagine with me. I was just trying to get you to talk to me."

"Sorry, I just have a lot on my mind…with Germany and stuff."

Alfred took his head off Arthur's shoulder and readjusted his towel.

"Yeah, okay. Hey, do you think Bella would give me a kiss for saving her from Ludwig?"

Arthur gave a sarcastic laugh.

"You mean she hasn't given you one yet? _That's_ curious."

Alfred laughed a little as well and smiled shyly.

"Because I think she's really pretty, you know?"

Arthur's heart sank. He felt as if his own ally had shot him in the stomach and left him for dead. He thought Bella was pretty?

"Oh yeah, yeah, she is."

Alfred shot a bright smile at Arthur.

"Well, if you see her, tell her I said hi, and that- I wouldn't mind that kiss."

Arthur nodded, now focusing on his shaving and dismissing anything else Alfred had to say.

"See ya, Artie."

Alfred left the room, leaving Arthur to himself.

He waited a few minutes to ensure that Alfred out be out of hearing range.

"_Shit_!"

He slammed his fist against the wall and threw his razor across the room. He felt so stupid, _so_ stupid for even hoping that Alfred was even vaguely interested in him. Of course he'd be attracted to a gorgeous woman like Bella. She was every man's fantasy.

He gathered his belongings and made his way back to his room. It wasn't much compared to what he had in France, but it was something considering their circumstances. He opened his door and let out a deep sigh as he closed it behind him.

"Hello, Arthur."

Arthur was startled. Bella, the beautiful, youthful looking Belgian woman rose from his bed and gave a small smile. Her long body was covered by loose fitting, white gown that barely reached her mid-thigh, adding to the Englishman's initial shock.

"B-Bella, what are you doing here? I'm not quite decent."

"Oh, Arthur, I don't care. Come sit with me."

He shifted on his feet, removing the towel from his bare shoulders and hanging it. She was the last person he wanted to see at the moment, and her presence angered him. However, he didn't let her disrupt his seemingly kind demeanor toward his allies.

He made his way across the room and sat on the bed next to her. She smelt clean and pleasant, suddenly making him feel self-conscious of his own smell.

"What do you need, dear?"

She gave a bashful smile, looking down. Arthur raised an eyebrow in confusion. One of the straps to her gown was slipping over her shoulder, and her bosom was becoming increasingly visible. He looked away. It wasn't like Bella to dress so immodestly.

"I need to know, Arthur, how Alfred feels for me?"

Arthur's head turned back to her quickly, giving her an almost indignant expression.

"What do you mean?"

She blushed.

"Don't be stupid. All of you boys are all attractive, but Alfred's just…_really_ handsome."

Arthur swallowed, finding himself nodding and stopping himself. Bella liked Alfred and he liked Alfred, and he wasn't about to give him up.

"Bella, don't you think Alfred's a tad bold for you?"

She frowned, fidgeting with her hands.

"Bold?"

"I mean, Alfred may be handsome, but that doesn't make him suitable for a girl like yourself."

He turned toward her, reaching forward to take strands of her hair between his fingers.

"You need someone more…_experienced_."

Her frown grew back into a sheepish grin again.

"What? Like you? Do you say this to all the girls you come across?"

He picked up a devilish smirk as he snaked a hand around to the back of her head, guiding her lips onto his own.

He wished Alfred would walk in. He wished Alfred would see what he was doing with Bella, and maybe he'd get upset and fight for Arthur's attention again. Though, Arthur knew that that wouldn't be the case. His ally would be angered and feel betrayed, but at the moment, the Englishman could care less. This way, he knew for sure that the Belgian woman wasn't in Alfred's arms, touching him like he was touching her. As long as no other woman or man went near Alfred while he could still fight was all that Arthur was focusing on in the moment.

* * *

**The year is 1944 and the Allies are currently in Belgium. Bella, who is Belgium, make a brief and important appearance.**

**It seems Arthur has taken up some sinister reasonings and Alfred's acting in an odd fashion.**

**Stay tuned! Going all the way to present day! Thank you for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! **


	30. Chapter 30

"What's wrong, Alfred?"

"Everything...I wish you were here."

Alfred swallowed hard, pressing the receiver to his ear. He was so anxious to reach Berlin on his own, without Arthur babying him; and now, he was regretting he ever wanted that. He _was_ having the time of his life. It was everything he hoped for and more. Fighting Germans, busting down doors, and his personal favorite so far, interrogating Roderich Edelstein. It gave him the high he was looking for. However, what he saw now made him sick.

There was a lingering scent that filled his nostrils. It was one he couldn't shake off, even though he tried. And bodies, bodies everywhere. Emaciated, sickly, and dying. Alfred couldn't believe Ludwig Beilschmidt. Perhaps the world had underestimated the German.

"He's a fucking bastard, Arthur. When I get my hands around his goddamn Kraut- "

The Englishman on the other end hushed him.

"Settle down, lad…My boys and I stumbled upon one as well. We'll take care of Ludwig when we get there, but for now you've got to do something for the survivors. Understand?"

Alfred clenched his teeth. He loathed Arthur talking to him like that.

"I _know_. I can do it by myself."

He could hear his Ally sigh quite openly on the other side of the phone.

"I never said you couldn't. Now keep your head together and don't do anything rash."

Alfred didn't understand how Arthur could keep so calm; or at least sound like he was. He felt a pang of embarrassment.

"I'm not scared of anything."

There was a brief pause before Arthur said anything. Alfred wished he didn't say anything about wanting Arthur there. His friend would now think he was a coward, which he had to convince himself that he wasn't.

"Erm, I'm not accusing you of being scared, Alfred. I just know that you've never seen anything like- "

"Okay, okay, Artie, I can take care of this. I'll see you in Berlin."

The American hung up the receiver quickly. All he had to do now was tend to the living camp victims and get to Berlin before Ivan Briganski. That would be easy, because he was Alfred Jones, after all. Charismatic, assertive, and strong is what his men and the rest of the world saw, and he knew they expected no less.

* * *

**Okay, Okay, I know it's been forever since I've updated, and I feel horrible, but real life gets in the way.**

**A very short chapter with Alfred's POV! Yes, it's length _was_ on purpose, because, well...let's be honest, I can't reveal too much of Alfred's thought's and emotion. At least we get a little peek though. I _do_ have another, longer chapter that should be up tonight as well, so watch out for that.**

**And yes, this covered the concentration camp liberations. It wasn't much, but hey, I do my best not to stray. I did, however, want to add in the fact that the Americans forced the German civilians living around Buchenwald concentration camp to tour it and see what their government was doing. It was liberated on April 4, 1945, and was not only the first, but also the largest camp on German soil. **

**Thank you for your time and PLEASE REVIEW!**


	31. Chapter 31

Arthur fumbled with his own military jacket as he watched Alfred prepare himself in the mirror. The American wore only his dark brown trousers that reached up to his navel and a white undershirt at the moment. His dog tags jingled as he took a comb to his short, blond hair, making sure it was presentable for the dinner the two had with their Russian ally, Ivan.

This troubled the Englishman. All Alfred could talk about at the moment was Ivan. Every word that came out of his mouth for the past month was either "Ivan," or "commie bastard." He hoped to god that Alfred contained himself at the dinner. After all, Ivan wanted to celebrate conquering Berlin, and to the victory in Europe. Alfred needed to respect that and his ally.

Arthur's green eyes remained fixated on the American's backside. His trousers outlined his bum so…_perfectly._

"I mean, he has some nerve. Wouldn't ya say, Artie?"

Arthur shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He hated when he stared.

"Wha-What?"

"Ivan. You know, putting his damn commie flags all over Berlin."

Arthur slid his jacket on quickly.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, mate."

Alfred stood up straight, admiring his hair before turning to Arthur.

"How's it look?"

Arthur glanced over, as if he didn't care.

"Fine."

The American smiled, stepping over to the bed to pick up his shirt.

"Fine as in…You'd want to take me home after a few drinks?"

Did Alfred just say that? Of course he'd want to take him home after a few drinks! Not even after a few drinks. He'd take him sober in the back alleyway if he could.

"Sure, Alfred. If I were a woman."

"Oh, yeah, of course."

Alfred smoothed down his shirt front and straightened his tie before throwing on his brown military jacket as well.

"Ready?"

Arthur nodded.

"Naturally."

He was proud of himself. He didn't seem to get physically flustered or show any signs of hesitation in his words while talking to Alfred. His ally was so good as playing it cool with such an exchange of words. He always was that way. Who was Arthur kidding? Alfred wasn't a queer. Hell, Alfred never took a second look at any man unless he suspected he was a communist. Arthur didn't understand why he thought Alfred's actions were peculiar. He acted just like any other immature boy his age.

Arthur had to stop these feelings. They weren't right. Being sexually attracted to men wasn't right and he was going to get caught sooner or later. Besides, Alfred would be leaving soon for the Pacific anyway. He had been spoiled seeing him so much, but now he had to detach himself.

Arthur opened the door for Alfred, following him out into the dimly lit halls of what used to be a prestigious hotel in Germany. Ivan was waiting for them, and he knew Alfred didn't want to be late.

• • •

The Englishman shifted uncomfortably in his furnished chair. He could practically feel the tension filling the room.

Across for both Alfred and himself to his left was Ivan Briganski, appearing larger than ever, watching his own men preform traditional Russian dances and listening to the live music with delight. He smiled and waved waiters near to himself so he could gather more food onto his small plate. Arthur secretly declared him monstrous, due to the way he was eating, but knew better then to voice anything.

Arthur found it reassuring that Alfred was so polite. Whenever Ivan would look over occasionally and nod his head to them, Alfred smiled and nodded back accordingly, though Arthur knew he was forcing it.

Then the inevitable happened. The room was hushed and Ivan rose from his seat, stretching to an unbelievable height. He stepped out in between the tabled and motioned to Alfred to join him. Alfred stood, giving Arthur a secretive, small nudge with his polished dress shoe as he did so, and joined Ivan so he was the center of attention with him.

"Mr. Jones, you have helped very much with this war, and I am honoured to be dining with you on this victorious and historical night. I request a toast to victory in Berlin and all of Europe."

Arthur watched, though he wished he could get up and leave the room. Alfred, on the other hand, curled a corner of his mouth upward.

"Why thank you, Mr. Briganski, but I don't drink with Russian sons of bitches."

It took a moment to register with Ivan. Arthur inhaled sharply at Alfred's absurd words, expecting the worst.

Ivan, with a furrowed brow, replied.

"Well, I don't drink with son of bitch like you either."

Then Alfred smiled. And that smiled turned into a small chuckle, that lead Ivan to smile in return.

"Okay, I'll drink to that."

The two men picked up a shot of vodka offered to them and linked arms, throwing back the liquid, and the room erupted in cheers and applauding Russians.

Arthur was relieved. He had expected another war to break out due to Alfred's smart mouth. Though, it seemed that wasn't happening tonight, thank god. Now he just hoped both of them would be well enough tomorrow to have a sit down with Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt.

* * *

**Two updates in one night like a boss!**

**Okay, okay, we have victory in Europe! Whoo! But it seems Alfred's got something against Ivan. And what's more, Arthur's repressing his sexuality and becoming increasingly confused. Oh, Arthur...**

**And as a little fun fact, General Patton actually refused a drink with General Katkov and then drank with him once he was insulted back. One of the many reasons I love Patton.**

**Thank you once again to reading! PLEASE REVIEW! _And_ just a little heads up for anyone interested...I'm about to start a new fic that goes all the way back to the birth of England and ties into this fic. So, if you like this, be sure to watch out for my new one!**


	32. Chapter 32

The corners of Alfred's mouth curled upward into a twisted, satisfied grin. Ludwig Beilschmidt had finally been brought to his knees in front of the Allied powers, who were sitting in a row before the German. Arthur sat to the right of Alfred, next to a worn out Francis, who was on the end. The fact that Ivan was sitting directly next to Alfred made the Englishman somewhat uneasy, but that could be forgotten for the moment. They had a more important matter to attend to.

Alfred spoke in a cool, collected manner, folding his hands in front of himself.

"Well, it's no mystery why you're here, _Herr._ Your Nazi thugs are in the other room getting tried as we speak."

Ludwig was silent. His clear, blue eyes stared at the floor, and his once confident composure was broken, leaving him slumped in a stiff chair that Alfred had the utmost pleasure of showing him to.

"We're going to have a little chat with you, Ludwig, and we expect answers."

The German raised his head, asking in a somewhat shaky voice.

"Where- Where is my brother?"

Francis and Arthur exchanged a brief look. This was a strange situation. Very strange. Alfred answered him.

"Gilbert is in the building. We may or may not bring him in. We'll see how this goes first."

Ludwig gave a small nod, rolling his wrists in the steel confines of the handcuffs the Englishman had personally put on him.

The whole room seemed to jump when a distinct Russian accent was heard.

"You look very uncomfortable, Mr. Beilschmidt. Is something wrong?"

Arthur's eyes danced off every face. Ludwig was certainly troubled, and Ivan seemed to only make it worse, with his strange, almost demented humour and smile on his face. Then he saw it. Both Alfred and Ivan seemed to be enjoying this. Sure, revenge was sweet, Arthur knew this, but to see Alfred like this was…odd.

His mind wandered. He had been young once before, and perhaps his behavior was similar to his son's…or worst.

Rouen, France, 1431

Arthur's boots clicked down the damp, grey corridor. The guards of the prison had offered to escort him to the correct cell, but he had waved them off. This was something he preferred to do in private.

He turned the corner, adjusting his collar as he reached the cell. He produced the keys he had taken from the guards and unlocked the door, not bothering to knock. The Englishman made sure to close the door behind him, in case the prisoner would try to escape.

A young girl looked up from her hands, appearing somewhat startled by Arthur's initial entrance, but quickly regained her composure. She rested her hands on her lap and lifted her chin to give the man her full attention.

Arthur spoke, his voice haughty and full of venom.

"Mm, it's nice to see you properly dressed, my dear. I fancy that."

The girl looked away in what appeared to be distaste. It made Arthur smirk. She had insisted on wearing men's clothing, but now he had her in a gown. Stunning.

"Tell me, _Joan_…You must have some sort of opinion of me. I've been dying to hear it."

"I do not know who you are. This is strange to me."

Arthur casually paced back and forth across the cell as if it were his study and he were discussing Greek philosophy, stopping in front of the other to address her more personally.

"Your voice is darling, do you know that? So pretty too. What a shame you serve that long-haired twat, Bonnefoy."

The Englishman raised his brows and gave a mock examination of his nails.

"So tell me. What do you think of me?"

There was a short silence before she gave an answer.

"I will not tell you what you want to hear."

Arthur pursed his dry lips.

"But it is such a simple request. Come to me."

He moved toward her and laid a wandering hand on her chest, which received a squirm and a small, vocal protest. His other hand grasped her mouth, squeezing her cheeks inward.

"Ah, ah, no noises, or you'll be in even more trouble."

She squirmed again, and with one swift kick, she struck him in the groin, sending him backwards and into the wall behind him. Doubled over, he whimpered quietly.

She stood with her nostrils flared.

"You flatter yourself, and do not listen to criticisms. You are a wicked man, and God shall damn you to hell for what you have done to France and His name."

Arthur spat, still holding his lower regions and turned toward the door. How _dare_ she! Being beaten by Francis Bonnefoy was enough of an embarrassment, and he wouldn't let a some French whore have her way with him. She would pay for her crimes…

May 30, 1431

Arthur stepped forward to peer over the smoking ashes of the pyre. He pinched his nose and contorted his mouth in disgust.

"Burn her again."

He turned away and stepped back as flames rose again. His eyes watered from the heat and smoke. His stomach churned, but he felt a strange sort of contentment. He watched the flames dance. It was fulfilling to know that his enemy was now dead, and he would make sure Francis had nothing after this. Nothing.

The flames died down again, and without hesitation, he demanded the remains be burned once more.

"Make sure nothing is left!"

The palms of his hands and his forehead perspired. He had been waiting for this moment far too long. He had his men gather the powdery ash and take it to the river.

This was it. He took the jar and tilted it, letting its contents pour into the river. He wished he could see the Frenchman's puffy, wet face. He flexed his hand and thought how good it would feel to land his fist repeatedly into his face and make it bleed.

The ash disappeared into the water, washing away. He had gotten his revenge, but he desired more, something he would never get…

* * *

**My dearest readers,**

**I love you all and apologize for not updating sooner. **

**Here I give you Arthur and his revenge tactics. Joan of Arc, a very sensitive subject for Francis. Joan reported molestation by a "great lord" in her prison cell when she was forced to wear women's clothing. Afterwards she only wore men's clothing. She was burnt three times at the stake, because the English didn't want the French to have any relics to worship. **

**I'm already working on the next installment, please stay tuned and review! Thank you for your read!**


	33. Chapter 33

England, 1215

Arthur's steps were staggered. The bloodied, shard edge of his long blade traced a trench into the Earth as he drug it behind him, gasping for breaths. He didn't dare look behind himself, because he honestly feared, not that he would admit it to himself, that he was doomed.

The ground was wet, which amplified the sound of a horse cantering up behind him. It was drawing near, when he made up his mind. He growled and raised his sword above his head to fight off the rider; but his sword was met by another experienced sword. Arthur clenched his teeth hard. There was already a pounding in his head from a few blows he received earlier, and a new tension was building. The force that challenged him also challenged his balance. His soaked feet scrambled for footing, but the slick, marsh like ground failed him and caused his falling. His adversary dismounted.

The young Englishman scrambled, swinging his sword madly. However, a swift kick to his ribs halted his violent movement, eliciting a crack followed by a howl of pain.

"Shh, Arthur, I am here for you,"

The Frenchman placed his heavy foot over Arthur's hand that bore his sword, stepping down with the hope of snapping bone. Arthur cried out as his fingers gave way and popped. He opened his eyes, blinded by his own tears, hardly making out the figure above him. His chapped lips fought to produce words.

"L- Leave…AHHH!"

Francis applied more pressure.

"No, you belong to me now. You. This filthy country."

Arthur's chest heaved as his mangled fingers were relieved of their stress. His body was lifted into sitting position. Francis supported his lolling head as he produced a short dagger and taking advantage of Arthur's open, panting mouth.

He placed the sharp blade on the surface of his tongue, pressing until he drew blood.

"You are a brutal boy, my love. Tell me, how many priestly tongues have you removed?."

Blood ran down the knife and cascaded over the corners of Arthur's mouth. His eyes bulged, not daring to move in such a vulnerable position. Francis leaned close.

"How does it feel not to have a voice? All men pay for their sins. God will see to it. He sees everything."

He pulls the knife away slowly, his head coming close enough to smell the fresh blood leaking from the wounded mouth. The uneven breathes that shot from flared nostrils blew against his nose, and his thin lips touched against the quivering chin, coating themselves in red blood. Arthur's breathing hitched as Francis closed his mouth gently around the corner of his own and murmured incoherent nothings.

Arthur's body jerked and pulled back, cutting his cheek on the end of the dagger.

"And God sees this and it is abomination! You are fouled and have tainted his word and my blood!"

He struggles to distance himself, slurring his words, his heart pounding more than ever. Francis rises to his feet, stepping toward him.

"In time, we will all find ourselves before God and our sins will be counted. He will look at you and see murder, rape, and blood. He will see you for the demon you truly are. You are no saint, Arthur Kirkland, and God will judge you. You will not be spared from lamentation."

The bloody lips sprayed red, pleading mercy. Francis examined him from above, but hardly hesitated in answering.

"I have already shown you mercy. Unless you prefer death, but I know you are too selfish to want that."

Arthur's eyes rolled back into his head, the blood loss causing him to lose touch with reality.

"I am king, Arthur, I am king."

• • •

Arthur's body jolted awake.

"Fuck."

He raised his hands to his face to rub his tired eyes, becoming suddenly aware of the warm body next to him.

"Arthur? What's wrong?"

The Englishman looked at the concerned Frenchman, and shook his head.

"Nothing. Just dreaming of something unexpected."

Francis refrains from touching him. He knew better than that, so he let his body fall back onto the pillows.

"Don't let the past get to you, Arthur…Unless it's about- "

"No. Shove off, Francis."

Arthur settled himself back down, a million thoughts racing though his mind. They had another long meeting with Ludwig that day, which provoked the Allied forces to the point of Arthur nearly leaping over the table to throttle the German. Alfred had to yank him back into his seat and promise him drinks to calm down. Every time he looked into the cold, distant stare of Ludwig Beilschimidt, he felt anger. He wanted to kill him. He knew Francis wanted to kill him too, but didn't actively try to. Alfred spoke of justice and mercy. The thought of Alfred at the moment made his head ache. Of course the bloody America would suggest that they be fair to Ludwig. After all, it was Alfred who annihilated Kiku Honda twice with two atom bombs, and offered to help afterwards.

Alfred was always on about things. Right now his main focus was Ivan, Ludwig, and Kiku. He huffed to himself and acted as if he didn't care, but inside, he was dying. Arthur was no longer the top of Alfred's list. That morning, Arthur greeted the American and received only a slap on the back and a "how ya doin', Artie?" Arthur _hated_ when Alfred spoke like that. The thought of fading into the background of Alfred's life was concerning, and he couldn't help but feel as if his time to act on his emotions was dwindling.

Long, slender fingers ran across Arthur's bare chest. Francis was trying to comfort him by showing romantic affection. He never understood the Frenchman. He was rude and condescending to nearly everyone he met, but behind closed doors, he wanted nothing more than to kiss and caress Arthur. The Englishman slapped his hands away. Francis was a seducer. He knew that he treated every one of his lovers like this. It was something he took pride in.

"Stop it, Francis. I know I'm just another one of your fucks."

Francis rolled away from him, and rose from the bed. Arthur sat up.

"Where are you going?"

"To my room. So no one suspects us."

Arthur nods.

"Right, right…I'll see you tomorrow then."

Francis slipped out the door silently, leaving Arthur to himself, in the dark.


	34. Chapter 34

India, August 15, 1947

It had been nearly two years since the war had ended, and Arthur found himself riding along in a jeep, on a bumpy, unpaved road in India. He batted a hand in front of his face to shoo the never ending swarms of flies away, pursing his lips in a most unamused manner.

This was not his ideal situation. India. Now. Watching the natives as he passed them stare back only made him more disgusted with himself; though he tried to convince himself that it was certainly the Indian's fault that he was put in such a situation. He hated it. He always did. And it pained him inside that this was not the first time he was losing a colony. A "loved one" as he liked to put it when trying to sound humane.

He let out a small, indignant huff and produced a cigarette. The sun was becoming increasingly hotter on his fair skin, causing him to perspire through his clothing. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could stand. He'd see his Indian colony, speak briefly, and leave. Nothing more.

He stepped out of the jeep once it came to a halt in front of the camp his colony was currently located in. He blinked rapidly as dirt clouded his eyes. A result of the car stopping abruptly.

"Come on then, let's make it quick."

He waved one of his men along as he started toward the camp, ignoring the many eyes following him.

This wouldn't be like any parting Arthur had ever experienced before. No. India was- Everything to him. A source of great wealth and fortune. The place where he had discovered riches beyond what he initially imagined. The country he chose over Alfred. At least, he thought, the Indian's were peaceful in their protest. Not at all like Alfred. And at least they didn't idolize French philosophes like Alfred. He thanked God for that.

He reached the tent he had been searching for only minutes later and did not hesitate to enter without announcing himself first. Force of habit.

"Hello, my dear."

The woman turned to face Arthur, sporting a frown. She was quite thin and unhealthy looking. At least, not in a state he had ever seen her in. He adjusted his shoulders and cleared his throat, appearing quite haughty and pompous; the typical demeanor he had around his underlings.

"I don't expect you to exchange words with me, nor do I expect you to be personable toward me."

Arthur avoided eye contact with her, suddenly finding it hard to articulate himself.

"It has come to my- my attention that you are unhappy with me, and I see now that there is only one solution to the problem, and that is to grant you your independence."

He took a shaky breath.

"And…My darling…I call you this one last time, but you shall forever be the jewel in my crown."

He found himself ending his short lived speech more eloquently then he originally expected.

The jewel in his crown. Something India would always be remembered as. He wished to leave now. To be back home, in private, so he could think for an extended period of time. He felt relieved to be saying all this to his prized colony, but he couldn't help but feel weak and over exposed in front of her.

Arthur turned sharply and left the tent without bidding the woman any sort of farewell. This is one time he would allow himself to be rude, and maybe a bit selfish, but he couldn't help it. At least not in his opinion.

He needed to return home. He needed someone to reassure him that he made the right decision.

* * *

**Greetings, my fellow readers.**

**I understand it has been a long, long time since I last updated. I apologise. I did not think I would be returning to this, yet here I am. Please excuse my absence.**

**Here I give you India's independence and Arthur's great loss. It is a short chapter, but I will be updating more within the next few days. 1950's, here we come!**

**Thank you for reading and please review!**


	35. Chapter 35

May 4, 1955: Three days after the signing of the Warsaw Treaty

"So it looks like Ludwig's gotten himself royally fucked."

Alfred pushed the door to Arthur's hotel room closed behind him and marched in. Arthur, who was not expecting visitors, stepped out of the bathroom and gave his guest a quizzical look.

"What are you on about, Alfred? And who said you could come into my room uninvited?"

Alfred ignored him and planted himself at the edge of the Englishman's bed, folding his arms and rolling his eyes.

"I'm talking about the god-damn commie show Ivan Briganski is putting on. 'Friendship, cooperation, and mutual assistance' my ass! I _told_ you, Arthur! I fucking told you!"

Arthur sighed and rubbed his eyes. Just when he thought he had time for himself to get cleaned up and rest, a very pissed off, oversized American comes storming in his room.

There was no bargaining with him. Arthur knew this by now. The boy had been paranoid ever since the start of the 1920s. It didn't matter who anyone was anymore, or how long he knew them. There was always a chance they could be collaborating with the Soviets. Sure, Ivan Briganski was…a bit odd. And disturbingly large. But he always had been, and Arthur figured he always would be. After all, people don't change. At least not in Arthur's experience. Maybe their clothes change, and their manner of speaking, but deep down inside, they're the same, cold-hearted sociopaths they always have been. Arthur saw it time and time again, and he was seeing it in Alfred, who spoke of peace and camaraderie among nations. But once 1950 rolled around, he was back to throwing punches in Korea and making more wild accusations with the help of Joseph McCarthy.

Arthur couldn't decide how this made him feel. Looking back, Arthur was not much better. In fact, he was probably far worse. Now there was international communication and everyone is watching everyone. While there are nuclear missiles and other large weapons capable of destroying man-kind entirely, it is reassuring that nations can no longer be as elusive as they used to be. Hell, Arthur remembers tracking Francis for days, weeks, months, just to get a hold of bastard once and beat the ever living _shit_ out of him with his bare hands.

That made Arthur smile. The good ol' days. Well…they became good, in a strange way, as they got farther and farther back in time. Back when all anyone fought for was land, honour and God. Times were harder, of course. Everything was scarce, including God. And there were no guns. Bashing someone's brains out with a rock was fairly normal to Arthur, as terrible as it was to think about now. But Alfred never had to do that. He was born into a time when things weren't so savage. Savage by the standards of the 1950s? Yes, but not by Arthur's standards. Or his brothers'. Or Francis'. No. Alfred was going through his own period of self-discovery. That was for certain. What Arthur was unsure about was how Alfred's self-discovery would take its toll on him.

Looking back, Arthur can see what did him in. Why he is the way he is. It is something he cannot change about himself. He is prideful and arrogant. A great fault he shares with Francis; a result of their countless wars and spitefulness toward each other. He knows he is jealous and controlling, due to his expansive empire he built for himself across the world. Something Alfred was a part of. And looking at Alfred now, watching him fume at the foot of his bed, he sees how he has corrupted him. Alfred, whom he failed. It was his job to protect him, to keep him safe and he _failed_. And instead of having an obedient, loyal child, he ruined him and sent him spinning into a downward spiral where he will never get peace, because all he wants is freedom. Freedom that he believes is his human right because he never felt like he was granted any from the start. He is left compensating for the things Arthur deprived him of and Arthur knows Alfred can't put his finger on it, so instead of helping himself, he figures he can get some relief forcing his beliefs on others.

Guilt cannot possibly describe the way Arthur feels about Alfred. Maybe it is now, after he lost him, that he finally wants to make it right. And maybe he already has, but-

"Hey, Arthur, are you even listening?"

"Yeah, sorry, lad."

Sorry for everything. He wished he could just scream it at him. Everything.

"_I'm sorry. I'm so god-damn sorry, Alfred. For everything. I'm sorry I fucked it all up. I'm sorry made you feel inferior and that you were worthless. I'm sorry we had to fight. And even sorrier that you don't know how much I love you, and how much you make me feel like I've failed you. I'm sorry you won't ever know how much I deeply regret giving up on you. If I could, if I could do it all over again, I'd give you the whole world."_

The whole world. Every last bit of it. And what Arthur doesn't even know, is that Alfred is his whole world. And he owes his world to the man who inspired it. So that maybe that man can experience himself for what he really is, and not a tainted, corrupted version; one that's been kicked around and lied to.

But Alfred will never know any of this, because Arthur will never tell. Alfred will go on, blind, and perhaps it's for the best. Why ruin something that is already ruined? Arthur considers Alfred his dearest friend and colleague, and he doesn't wish to destroy even that.

"Alright, well, tomorrow, just- You know. Whatever man."

Alfred rose to his feet.

"You aren't even listening."

Arthur stretched his back and shrugged.

"Well, you're the one who's always on about something. There's nothing to say that hasn't already been said."

Alfred rolls his eyes and huffs, a bit indignant.

"Okay, Arthur. You're being very unhelpful right now."

"_Unhelpful?_"

Arthur just about had it with Alfred's retorts.

"All I am is bloody helpful! Sitting here, listening to you bitch all day about shit that doesn't concern you or that is so fucking irrelevant it makes me want to lodge a fucking _icepick_ into the base of my scull! So don't you tell me I'm being unhelpful when I'm one of the few people who will actually_ listen_ to you, you ungrateful shit!"

There was a long pause. Arthur couldn't tell whether or not Alfred was going to snap back or cry. The intensity building in his chest has lessened a bit. It felt good to get something out, even if his outburst was completely unexpected.

"Arthur…I'm sorry…"

Alfred avoided eye contact and Arthur took a deep breath.

"It's alright."

He replied in a softer tone.

"Why don't you go to your room and get ready for bed? We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

The American nodded and made his way out of the room, leaving Arthur alone.

Tomorrow the Allies would recognize West Germany as a sovereign nation, which meant it was an early bed night for Arthur.

West Germany. Ludwig Beilschmidt. How strange it was to hear that name without his brother's alongside. The world was changing. Something Arthur's world was subject to as well.

* * *

**As promised, here is another update.**

**We've finally made it to the 1950s, a major turning point in the story and history. Arthur shows his perspective on Alfred's flaws and puts him in his place. **

**More to come.**

**As always, thanks for reading and please review! **


	36. Chapter 36

England, 1958

"You know those things give you cancer."

Arthur looked up at Alfred, who he invited to his house to pay a visit while he was in town. He lit the cigarette hanging out of his mouth and took a drag.

"What? And suddenly you're going to stop smoking?"

Alfred chuckled and made his way over to Arthur and clapped him on the back. He was stunning. Hair combed in a neat fashion, and his clothing suddenly so liberal. Jeans and a flannel shirt, something Arthur could never pull off as well as the American. No, Arthur was partial to his own leather jacket and black jeans, which he wore so well.

He watched as Alfred took a seat beside him and tossed him a cigarette

"Don't bitch, just take one."

He sat back and grinned as Alfred stuck it in his mouth and lit it immediately, sprawling his considerably larger body on the sofa.

"How've you been, Artie?"

Arthur shrugged.

"I've been worse."

Losing a large portion of his colonies took a toll on his confidence, though he'd never admit it aloud. Honestly, things were rather…mediocre. No bad news, but nothing to be overjoyed about, other than the fact that Alfred was sitting with him. Yes, Alfred, who suddenly seemed so much sexier than he ever had been before. He was handsome and smelled wonderful, and now he sat in an almost compromising manner just two feet from Arthur.

"Yeah, well, the damn reds are launching shit into space. That's no good."

Arthur shrugged.

"I dunno, Alfred. Sputnik seems like a rather amazing feat."

"Nothin' my boys can't do."

Just another problem, in Alfred's opinion. Not that Ivan Briganski and the rest of his Soviet gang were particularly trustworthy, but still, Sputnik was definitely a huge accomplishment for mankind as a whole.

"Sure, lad. Should I bother asking your opinion on Yao?"

Arthur figured he might as well get all the berating out of the way before he actually tries to talk to him.

"And Mao Zedong's dumbass five-year plan?"

Alfred rolls his eyes.

"Because, you know, every other 'five-year plan' those dumb-ass commies come up with has worked."

Naturally, Alfred spirals into an entire anti-communist rant, consisting primarily of conscious streams of thought that don't always make a lot of sense, but Arthur tolerates it. It was nice to see someone passionate about something, even if their ideas were completely ludacris. Arthur found himself becoming fixated on Alfred, primarily his mouth, as he spoke. Just the way he licked his lips between words and sometimes had to pause in the middle of a sentence to swallow and rehydrate his throat got Arthur thinking unspeakable things.

"Artie?"

Alfred snapped his fingers in Arthur's face.

"You alright?"

"Oh- Uh…"

Arthur shuddered and came crashing back down to reality.

"Right, sorry."

Alfred gave a toothy grin.

"I know I'm pretty damn handsome. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you wanted to give me a kiss."

Arthur's face went bright red.

"I-I _beg_ your pardon?"

His thoughts went racing. Had he just been found out? No, impossible, no one knew.

"Relax, Artie, I'm only joking with you. I'm no fag."

Arthur paused.

"A fag?"

"Yeah, man. You know. A queer."

The word took a moment to sink in. He had never heard Alfred use such derogatory language toward homosexuals, and Arthur couldn't help but feel shot down completely.

Maybe he should do it now. Tell him how he really feels about him. Kiss him. But then what? Alfred made his stance very clear and he would probably shun Arthur forever if anything like that ever happened.

"No, I understand."

There was a prolonged silence. Arthur put his cigarette out and stood.

"…beer?"

Alfred looked up with his eyes and removed his glasses.

"Yeah, sure."

Arthur walked to his kitchen and reached into his refrigerator and produced two glass bottle. This was awful and he wished Alfred would just leave his house and England. He convinced himself that he never wanted to see the fucking American again and that there were other ways to be happy without him. He didn't need Alfred.

* * *

**Here is a rather short chapter that has been sitting around for a while. It's about time I get it up.**

**Pop culture in America and England during this time period is very interesting and will start to play a larger role in upcoming chapters.**

**In 1954, data was released that revealed cigarettes can cause cancer. Fun fact. **

**There is more mentions of Ivan and Yao concerning the space race and the People's Republic.**

**Thank you for reading and please review!**


	37. Chapter 37

A Collection of Memories

England, 1066

The wind blew harsh and cold across the grey, dull land. Sprinkles of rain fell to the Earth in sad intervals, and onto the one living thing in sight. A small boy, dressed in brown animal skins made his way through the tall grass, trudging along wearing nothing on his feet and nothing to shelter him against the harsh weather.

He made his way toward a cluster of trees, hoping to find solitude there. He ducked his head and made a run for it, anxious to get some time to rest.

The trees he reached were large but very familiar. He walked around the base of the largest tree and found a cluster of rocks sitting in its roots. The boy scooped them up and sat in their place, finding the confines of the roots to be quite comfortable. He crossed his legs and held the rocks in his lap, examining each one in turn.

Curious rocks, with their ancient etchings and symbols. He wasn't allowed to have them anymore because he was told they didn't work after all. He reached to the string hanging around his neck and thumbed over the small, wooden cross that resided there. It wasn't nearly the same as his rocks that he now had formed into a circle.

The boy became startled by the sound of someone approaching and quickly stood, gathering his stones up into his arms. His large, green eyes widened as he hurried around the tree and came face to face with a taller, much cleaner boy.

He had seen this older boy before a few weeks ago. He had very fair skin and wavy blond hair that hung down in beautiful ribbons and framed his face perfectly. His eyes were a light, baby blue, and his face angular and sharp, unlike the younger boy, who was puny and angry looking. His hair was a tangled, dirty-blond mess, and his eyebrows dark and thick. Two opposites.

His presence irritated the smaller of the two boys, and he didn't hesitate to hurl a stone at the intruder. The rock struck the taller boy in the forehead, causing him to turn his head and cry out. He lurched forward and slapped the remaining rocks out of the little boy's arms and finished by shoving him to the ground.

"Didn't you hear? I'm the boss now."

The boy scowled up at the other, but only received a pompous smirk in return.

"You don't say much, do you?"

There was silence and only the wind blowing could be heard.

"I'm Francis."

There was another long pause.

"Won't you tell me your name? Or are you too stupid to understand what I am saying?"

The small boy furrowed his brows.

"I'm not stupid!"

"Then why are you still on the ground?"

"Why do you have a funny voice?"

Green eyes met blue ones.

"I'll kill you if you insult me again."

Francis stepped closer to the other, who glared back at him.

"I already know who you are, _Arthur_."

Once again, there was silence. The boy was stubborn, there was no doubt about it, and it was bothering the French invader. He kicked a rock into a tree, losing interest in his subject. This wasn't how declaring enemies was supposed to be, not that he had really done it before.

Arthur watched Francis kick his rocks around, still sitting on the ground where he fell.

"Those are mine."

He finally said, feeling the need to claim his property.

"Then why don't you fight me for them?"

Arthur got up to his feet and Francis turned to face him. Arthur made a run at him, but Francis, being older and easily predicting Arthur's moves, stepped to the side, sending the little boy stumbling. He laughed and stalked after him, grabbing him by the hair and turning him around to punch him in the face.

"You're weak. I'll like you as my enemy."

• • •

Saintes, France, 1242

France approached Arthur, who was waiting for him after dark. He sat in the overgrown blades of grass with his head bowed, hoping no one else would see.

"Francis?"

He whispered as he saw a shadow approach.

"Oui, it's me, Arthur."

The Frenchman sunk to the ground and crawled up in front of Arthur before settling back on his feet. Arthur focused in and gave him a quick punch in the jaw.

"Ah! Arthur!"

"That's for making me look like a fool."

Francis rubbed his jaw.

"You're the one who surrendered!"

"Shh, stop yelling or someone will hear."

Both of them shut up for a few moments.

"Why did you ask me to come out here, Arthur?"

Arthur faltered on his words. He didn't know how to explain his intentions to Francis.

"I- Well…Nevermind."

He started to rise to his feet, but his actions were halted by Francis taking a hold of his clothing and forcing him back down.

"Ah- Francis, get off!"

Francis tugged Arthur into the grass with him. Arthur squirmed and resisted him, but Francis was already getting what he wanted.

He pressed his lips to Arthur's for a good two seconds before breaking away. Arthur's eyes were wide with shock and his mouth gaped a bit. Francis took the opportunity to kiss him again, this time a bit longer. He wasn't at all surprised when Arthur answered back positively, prolonging the kiss. After all, it was Arthur who called on this preposterous, late-night meeting for no apparent reason after he just lost a war.

Arthur turned his head to the side and pushed Francis' searching lips away.

"No, that's enough for now."

"For now?"

Francis let Arthur climb to his feet.

"You mean there will be more?"

The tone in his voice was hopeful. Arthur brushed himself off, anxious to leave.

"Erm, yeah, I suppose."

He marched off into the night, leaving Francis to himself, smiling a bit. And truth be told, Arthur felt a bit overjoyed as well, not knowing what would become of their relationship.

* * *

**Some more flashbacks due to the many requests I received.**

**Here we have Arthur and Francis' first meeting as children and some Saintonge War. It was a French victory. English surrender. And apparently their first kiss. The first of many.**

**Thank you for reading and please review! **


	38. Chapter 38

America, November, 1963

One thing was for sure, after all the bullshit and tragedy that had taken place, Alfred was not in his right mind. He was out of his element and scared. Arthur remembered experiencing similar feelings at a young age, but Alfred was handling it a bit differently.

It's not that Arthur was any better. No. Arthur had his own physical and emotional issues he coped with in various ways. Drink was always good to him, and he had multiple opium binges throughout his life, but the 1960's brought new substances to the table; substances both Alfred and Arthur enjoyed personally.

Arthur had no complaints. It was always a very enlightening experience. The walls breathed, the floor rolled and sent pink and blue waves of orgasmic sound through the swirling ceiling. Flying green rabbits tickled his chin and arms and reassured him that he was doing alright. But then Arthur saw Alfred, who seemed tortured but his own internal thoughts and there was nothing he could do for him. Nowadays, it was unusual to see his colleague sober, whether he was tripping or just finished smoking a joint. Maybe it was just Arthur, but he felt closer to Alfred in many respects. They had already taken many psychedelic trips together, something neither of them had done with any other nation.

Initially, their times with one another were enjoyable. Their intentions were to just have fun and explore the depths of their minds in a very abstract manner, but it nearly always ended with a lingering feeling of regret. They would meet at either of their houses, or sometimes out on an expansive piece of Alfred's land, and smoke for bit, sitting side by side and talking about important things and things that weren't so important. Soon they'd transition into more prolonged states. Alfred typically supplied the blotters, and they would place them on their tongues and adventure together. Coming down never seemed to be a problem, but then again, times were hard, and Arthur took it upon himself to make sure Alfred made it back safely.

And there Alfred was, lying on his sofa smoking a cigarette and staring at the ceiling. Arthur pulled himself up from his seat and made his way into the kitchen, sloshing through the electric purple water at his ankles, being careful not to trod on any of the slowly vanishing koi fish swimming around his feet. He ducked his head underneath the faucet to take a long drink of water, finding his cotton-mouth almost unbearable.

"Arthur?"

Alfred called from the other room. His voice was slightly hoarse from his latest activities.

"Yeah, what is it?"

Arthur turned off the water and looked around, finding the floor completely dry now. He trudged back into the living room and sunk back into his seat, throwing a leg over the arm of the chair. He felt as if the plush cushions were going to swallow him down, but his thoughts was interrupted by Alfred's voice, that looked like faint, pink wisps floating from his mouth. He could hear the clinking of his dry mouth and Alfred's attempt to salivate.

"Get me some water, man."

Arthur blinked for what seemed like a good ten minutes.

"I was just in the kitchen."

He rose to his feet, his knees wobbling slightly. He had the sudden urge to lie down and he took another long blink.

• • •

When he awoke found himself sprawled on Alfred's legs, his shoulders stiff from sleeping in a contorted position. He didn't move for a long while, finding no need to do anything. His eyes and body felt heavy and tired; a sign that he was sobering up. It was both relieving and upsetting.

Arthur finally found the strength to sit up and look at Alfred, who had fallen asleep with yet another cigarette in his hand. If he had the motivation, he'd remove the cigarette from his friend's fingers before he shifted and got it lost in the couch, but he was only interested in smoking his own.

He managed to make it to the bathroom and wash his face. The icky feeling would go away in time. No more than a day. He was used to this now.

When he returned to Alfred, he found him awake and yawning.

"How do you feel, mate?"

Alfred rubbed his eyes.

"Like shit."

This was a typical response that could come from either of them on any given day, and Arthur didn't bother to ask him to elaborate. He sat back down beside him and rolled his neck.

"I lost my glasses again."

"No matter. They'll turn up. They always do."

Alfred huffed.

"Yeah, well, in the meantime, I won't be able to see for shit."

Arthur shrugged.

"Your eyes look better this way. Really blue and shit."

They were becoming accustomed to this sort of conversation. After all, they _did _look absolutely stunning and Arthur used the acid as an excuse to comment on Alfred's physical appearance. In turn, Alfred gave Arthur flattering compliments as well, ranging from the mild, "man, your hands are crazy soft," to, "I'd fuck you if you were a woman."

Arthur didn't forget the more explicit comments, but he knew that Alfred probably had no recollection of ever saying any of them. He was incredibly intoxicated when he had said them. He could have said them to anyone.

Yet, Arthur found himself turning toward Alfred and grabbing the American around the back of his head to pull him into a kiss; the long anticipated moment Arthur had been searching for. But he hesitated, just inches from his face, still holding a handful of Alfred's hair, who looked almost as surprised as he did.

There was second's pause.

"Arthur…Are you checking my temperature?"

Arthur furrowed his brows.

"Your-"

He stopped in his tracks. Alfred had remembered Arthur taking his temperature when he was a boy. He always fooled about how Arthur was kissing him and made a fuss over it.

"I- No. I'm kissing you."

His hand loosened its grip on Alfred's hair. He lost his chance. Anything could happen now except what he had planned.

Alfred shifted onto his hands.

"Then do it."

His eyes darted to the floor and he licked his lips.

Arthur's eyes were wide and he wanted to say something but knew he shouldn't. He let his hand slip to Alfred's shoulder and scooped his lips into his own. After only seconds, Alfred turned his head away and wiped his mouth, still avoiding eye contact.

"Alfred, I'm sorry."

There was silence, but inside Arthur's chest was a great intensity. He felt overjoyed and wished he could touch him again, but at the same time he was kicking himself for ever laying a hand on Alfred.

Arthur pulled away and stood, understanding that he made a mistake. He collected his belongings and slipped out the door without saying another word to Alfred, the man he just betrayed.

* * *

**Ladies and gentleman, I present to you a long anticipated chapter in the story.**

**I didn't focus as much on articulating the current events in my usual fashion. However, if you know your history, you know that times were very turbulent for America during 1963. There was Vietnam, of course, and on November 22, JFK was assassinated. **

**For those paying attention, I am drawing a reference all the way from the first chapter of the story.**

**I have introduced the concept of drug usage because it's the 1960's and I think it is important to the story. I am in no way condoning the use of any illicit substance.**

**Like always, thank you so much for reading and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review! You guys have no idea how much I love getting feedback. It lets me know that there are still people out there reading. Your reviews are my fuel! **


	39. Chapter 39

West Berlin, January, 1964

"I suppose I just do not understand your fascination with him. You forget that I've lost children too, and he is fighting her."

Arthur rolled his eyes and tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. Francis sat across from him, equally as annoyed with his ally. Maybe he shouldn't talk about Vietnam with the Frenchman, but seeing him get riled up never ceased to entertain him.

"Yeah, your poor _children_, Francis. They're not your bloody kids; they're colonies. Property. And it's not as though you've treated them particularly well either."

Francis shot a loathing look across the table, queuing an award-winning smirk from the other. Arthur sat back and crossed his legs, a triumphant expression written across his face. He wouldn't let Francis get to him. Not today, at least. Francis may be a close ally, but that didn't mean he had to be _nice_ to him. They were the same, sworn enemies; just older…and a bit grumpier.

Ludwig had been sitting at the table the entire time, watching the two bicker back and forth for a good hour. It was always hell when Francis and Arthur got together without Alfred or Matthew there to regulate them. After all, Arthur knew Ludwig couldn't exactly intervene, due to his current situation and past mistakes.

One of his dogs, Aster, cozied up to the German's leg, hoping to receive a pat on the head, which he got. The dog had been a gift to him back when Alfred visited Germany in June of 1963. Alfred had declared himself a "Berliner," along with his president, bringing the two countries closer than they ever had been before. Aster was welcomed warmly by Ludwig, who took a liking to canines. Ever since he received the dog, he seemed a lot less lonely and perhaps a bit happier. He couldn't help but feel a little guilty. It was Arthur who tried to convince Alfred that giving Ludwig a Golden Retriever puppy was a bad idea, when really, it was one of the best ideas the American has ever had. Maybe repressing Alfred as a child had brought about some good after all.

"When do you go back to America, Arthur?"

Arthur was a bit startled by the sound of Ludwig's voice. He hardly ever heard it except when it was necessary for him to talk.

"Oh, uhm, on the seventh of February."

Francis huffed.

"And he's dying to see you. Are you happy?"

Ludwig stood and excused himself from the room. A good decision, in Arthur's opinion.

"Happy? Are you fucking with me?"

Francis pursed his lips and produced rolling papers.

"I know for a fact that he is excited for your arrival. The whole world has been tracking your music."

That much was true. Arthur's sudden musical sensations in England were capturing the attention of people all over the world, including Alfred's.

"Who knows…perhaps he will finally let you into his trousers."

Arthur was not amused. The constant teasing he received from Francis concerning Alfred was enough to send him over the edge.

"You kiss him and not me?"

Francis was pushing it and Arthur locked his jaw. He didn't kiss Francis for multiple reasons; mainly because he only slept with him purely for pleasure, and didn't want any emotional attachments. Kissing had a way of doing that to people.

"He's different."

"Because he's rejected you twice now?"

That was it. Arthur stood and threw his lit cigarette at Francis, who swiped at it and grinned.

"Shut the fuck up, you fucking shit!"

"Only if you kiss me the way you kiss Alfred."

Francis continued smiling and rested his head on his hand.

"What- No!"

"Is it because you are scared to love me?"

There was a silence that left Arthur with his nostrils flared, unable to come up with a suitable response. Francis rose from his seat and walked around the table to the indignant Englishman.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me."

He growled, but Francis took his hand anyway, which was yanked out of his grasp immediately.

"Are you completely daft? I said no!"

Francis leaned against the table in front of Arthur and shrugged.

"Tell me Arthur…Why does Alfred appeal to you?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

Arthur gave Francis a boyish pout, an expression Francis took great pleasure taking advantage of.

"Please? I only want to help."

He rested his hands on Arthur's hips, who surprisingly let him. Arthur folded his arms and looked away, scowling.

"No, you just want to gossip. I know you, Francis. It's like the time you tied my wrists to the bed frame when we were in Vienna and told Roderich to check on me."

Francis beamed up at him and tugged him near.

"I remember. But Gilbert found you first."

"Yes! And you know how he likes to gossip! Him and Roderich!"

He scoffed and continued.

"And you _know_ there is something off about Roderich. There always has been. And Gilbert for that matter! Fucking lunatics, those Germans. No wonder Ludwig has so many problems!"

"Arthur, darling, you are trying to change the subject."

The Frenchman smirked a bit and pulled Arthur into his lap, kissing which ever part of his body that touched his mouth first.

"Get off me!"

Arms tightened around Arthur, restricting his movements. He struggled to stand, but Francis was determined to keep him in his lap; so determined that he dragged them both to the ground so he was on top of Arthur, pinning him down. It wasn't long before both of them were reduced to laughter, a result of the situation and their relationship with one another, and Francis got his kiss, long and slow. When he pulled his head away, Arthur found himself not quite ready to end it.

"I thought you didn't like kissing me."

Arthur blinked and thought it best not to respond.

"It is because you know I kiss better than Alfred. He is just a boy compared to me."

He tried to kiss the Englishman once more but got his cheek instead.

"Shut up. I've only kissed him once because he asked me to."

"…What?"

Sure, maybe Arthur made it sound as if Alfred was the one initiating the kiss, but that sort of thing got more shock value with Francis. He knew he wouldn't surprise him at all if he had said he was forcing himself onto his former colony, as horrible it was to think he's done that before. No, Alfred asked Arthur to kiss him because he_ obviously_ is in the closet and _obviously_ has repressed sexual desire toward men.

"I am not surprised. After all, _you_ raised him. No wonder he's been holding onto this for so long."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Arthur contorted his face and got a kiss on the nose.

"I mean that you hold onto things, Arthur. You become attached to things, people, events…You hold grudges."

"What? And you don't?"

He was a bit indignant. After all, Francis did the exact same thing.

"No, I do. The difference is that I actually talk about it. When something bothers someone, they talk about it. It might be annoying to you, but it is healthy. It makes people feel better."

"No, it makes _you_ feel better. It's annoying as hell when you bitch about shit."

"Arthur, please try to understand. I know Alfred is just one of your obsessions."

His comment caused Arthur to revolt and flip Francis off of him. He sat up and hissed at his ally.

"You're just jealous, you fucking cunt, because you know that he isn't just a bloody obsession. I know you, and I know you're scared that I do love Alfred and not you. I've never loved you, Francis, and I never will. The sooner you get that through that thick scull of yours, the better."

He scrambled to stand. He knew that there was two ways Francis would react. He'd just sit there, shocked, or he would come after Arthur and try to hurt him. Just to be sure, Arthur hopped across the room quickly and turned around, getting ready to lay into Francis, but found that he wasn't about to fight anyone.

Francis was standing now, dusting of his trousers with a frown on his face. He didn't bother looking at Arthur, who remained confused at the reaction he was getting.

"Tell Ludwig it is safe to come back in. There is no use ruining two political ties today."

* * *

**Greetings fellow readers!**

**I am pleased to be giving you another chapter with a bit of an abrupt ending. **

**We come in contact with Ludwig again, who, at the moment, is representative of West Germany. West Germany joined NATO during 1955 and played an important political and economic role in Europe, including it's help during 1957, helping to found the EEC (European Economic Community), as well as becoming close allies with our favourite boys, America, The United Kingdom (which includes not only England, but Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland as well), and France. I do have another fanfiction I have started that stars Ludwig and will hopefully follow through to present day like this one. It ties in to the story line and includes some of the same history, therefore I must be vague and everyone will just have to wait and see what happens with Ludwig and Gilbert! **

**February 7, 1964 was a historic day in America. The Beatles arrive in America! Cue the British Invasion! For those of you who would like to watch the insane amounts of people who showed up at JFK airport to greet them, here is a YouTube video: watch?v=1Df-LvrRcEo  
I will say...I have personally seen Paul McCartney in concert and I may have worn my East German officer's cap (me prepping for "Back in the USSR") and cried during "Hey Jude." I may have been worse than these people. But regardless of what I do when faced with legendary English talent, relations between Arthur and Alfred may change a bit.**

**Enough with my Babbling. I'd like to thank you all so, _so_ much for your unwavering support. I have received so many PMs and reviews concerning this story and I'm very flattered. Some bad news, though...I will be leaving to go to California this coming Wednesday (the 17th) and will not be able to update until next year. Probably around January. I sincerely apologise and wished it weren't so. Until this time, I will be updating as much as I can and I hope to not disappoint.**

**As always, I love you all and thank you very much for reading and PLEASE REVIEW! I love reviews! I hope to update again soon! **


	40. Chapter 40

February 7, 1964

"Artie! Hey, man!"

Arthur was greeted by a huge, bone-crushing bear hug as he got off the plane in New York. He gasped a bit before being released by the overly-exuberant American, who was beaming down at him.

"Glad you could make it."

"Well, I'm glad to be here."

He smiled back and clapped him on the arm, trying to remain as professional as possible in front of all the cameras and press. Alfred, on the other hand, couldn't keep to himself even if he tried. At least not at the present moment. He was more than happy to escort Arthur to a private car that would take them to one of Alfred's city apartments. He slipped in after the Englishman and shut the door.

"Ready for some quality bonding?"

Arthur shrugged, assuming that Alfred meant getting wasted together.

"Aren't I always?"

Alfred grinned and produced a joint, tossing it into the other's lap.

"Then light up, my friend, because we're about to get baked. You're here; The Beatles are here…This is going to be awesome."

Arthur did as he was told, loving the fact that Alfred was so head over heels for him at the moment. It was an odd, yet wonderful feeling. After years upon years of waiting, he finally was touching him and giving him the attention he always dreamed about. Maybe this was a sign that Alfred was letting go of what had happened only two months ago. Maybe he would be open to Arthur's feelings a bit more this time around.

• • •

"Mm, more, Arthur..."

Arthur obliged his friend, working Alfred's lips with his own, his head tilted to the side for better access. He rested a hand on Alfred's knee, his other hand holding around the back of his neck. They had to have been kissing for at least ten minutes on the sofa, but it was hard to say how they had gotten to where they were. Everything was a bit hazy, and Arthur was sure that Alfred was way too stoned to even know what he was saying or doing. All he knew was that one minute they were in the kitchen eating left over pie, and the next he was swapping saliva with Alfred Jones (not that he was complaining).

Everything felt so good; or maybe that was just the weed talking. Regardless, this was how Arthur imagined Alfred would feel and taste. His lips were so plump and soft. Absolutely perfect. He would suck his lower lip between his teeth and pull back gently. Something so simple, yet so erotic. And Alfred let him. Oh god, yes, he let him. There were no awkward pauses or hesitation, because Alfred was just as forward as the other.

They pulled apart at last, both panting a bit and their lips tender and swollen. Arthur stared into the deep, blue eyes that belonged to Alfred and kissed his mouth again briefly.

"Hey, Artie…?"

"Yeah?"

Alfred blinked and touched his wet mouth.

"You want to get some girls in here?"

Arthur contorted his face in confusion.

"Well- Why exactly?"

Alfred shifted away from Arthur a bit and rested back on the couch.

"You know…To get off with."

"Alfred, why would we get some whores in here when I could get both of us off?"

His response came out more blunt than he originally intended. Alfred's eyes widened and his face turned a light shade of red.

"Arthur…Hey, buddy, um…I'm not gay, man."

Then came the awkward, prolonged pause.

"You literally _just_ had your tongue down my throat."

It was true. And on top of that, Alfred was very handsy, but apparently that didn't mean anything to him.

"I'm just stoned, man."

Alfred shrugged.

"I always thought you were normal."

"…Normal?"

Arthur huffed.

"Straight. Like me. You seem to be good with woman and shit, and you're like a straight guy. You drink liquor and you can shoot guns and fly planes…I don't know."

"What are you doing then? Testing me?"

Alfred looked down at his hands and shrugged again. He swallowed, obviously distressed about the entire situation. Arthur reached over to lay a hand on his outer thigh.

"It's alright…I'm not cross with you, lad. You're confused-"

"I'm not confused!"

He shot straight up out of his seat.

"I'm fucking straight! I like boobs and women and- and- So stop trying to make me sleep with you or something! Now I think- God, you're fucking sick, man!"

He stormed over to his shoes to pull them on, getting ready to leave.

"Alfred- Where the hell are you going?"

"I don't know. Matt's place."

This was far too abrupt and sudden, even for Alfred. Something was off, and Arthur knew it. He took a few cautions steps toward Alfred, who was crouched over, tying his shoes.

"I don't want you driving."

It was a legitimate concern. Alfred had already smoked an entire bowl with Arthur, and it's not that he _couldn't_ drive under the influence, because both of them did it all the time; but because anger and confusion or whatever the hell Alfred was experiencing didn't mix well with drugs and driving.

"Just calm down and I'll get the pipe. Stay here."

Arthur hurried out to the kitchen to grab the pipe off the table where they left it, making sure to pack it full before returning. Alfred was sitting on the floor with one of his shoes untied, looking completely lost and hopeless. Like a kicked puppy.

• • •

Now they both sat on the floor together, smoking the pipe and coughing into their arms like a bunch of 15 year olds. Alfred decided to take his shoes back off again and crawl to the sofa, unable to stand on his own.

"Uhh, Artie…I'm ripped. I'm sorry I yelled at you, man. You know I love you."

Arthur pulled himself up to his feet and sat the pipe on the coffee table.

"No problem. I just think we ought to talk about this. Like men; because I am actually a man. Penis and everything."

Alfred laughed and stretched, closing his eyes.

"Penis."

The Englishman sat at the end of the couch and grinned stupidly at the word that was suddenly hilarious. It took a minute for the moment to pass and Alfred placed his feet into Arthur's lap.

"So who else is gay besides you?"

He couldn't help but smile a little at the question. Alfred had a certain inflection in his voice that made him sound so boyish and cute. As if he was a child again.

"Well…"

Arthur gazed up at the ceiling, trying to recall all the nations he's slept with and all the nations who he knows have slept with other men.

"Francis and Antonio Carriedo frequently dabble with the love that dare not speak its name."

"I totally called that, Artie. I told Matt and he never believed me."

If only Alfred knew what Matthew did. Arthur continued

"Right. And Roderich Edelstein. Though, you could have called that one as well. He's a bloody fairy. Let's see…I've gotten Yao Wang into bed. Granted, he was smoking a lot of opium at the time, but I got him."

"But he's a dirty commie."

"Not back then. He was older. And attractive."

He smiled to himself as Alfred made a grossed out noise like a kid who saw his parent's kiss.

"What did you do with him?"

"What do you mean? I slept with him."

Alfred shifted uncomfortably.

"Like-"

"Like sex, Alfred."

"Oh…"

This was a good state to have him in; he couldn't run away and he was willing to talk about things he would normally avoid. Maybe earlier he had a sudden moment of soberness and tried to abandon ship.

"I know it seems strange, Alfred. I'm sorry."

"Hey, Artie?"

"Hm?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

Arthur looked down the couch at Alfred, wanting him to actually ask his question.

"You know, I find you exceedingly attractive, Alfred. I realize you don't have mutual feelings toward me, but I do love you. Every bit of you from the day you were first mine. You're my little boy, and all I've ever wanted was for you to be happy and successful."

Alfred smiled sadly and turned his head away.

"I just- I feel like I disappoint you and shit, man…You're my family. You and Matt. You're all I got."

"Alfred, you have _never_ disappointed me. And if you don't want this, I won't force you."

The American propped himself up on his elbows.

"You can't force me to do anything, Artie. You know that."

They both grinned and had waves of nostalgia wash over them.

"Yes, I know. Maybe that why you're so special. You broke me."

"No, dude, don't say that."

Alfred shook his head.

"You sound so sad."

Then Arthur felt it. Like crying. Here they were, actually conversing about something that really affected them. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Alfred, his baby boy. Fuck everything he felt before, he just didn't want to lose him over something so stupid. He didn't want another Francis.

Alfred scooted toward him.

"Will you stay with me, Artie?"

"Tonight?"

He shrugged a little.

"I dunno…I don't want you to leave unhappy again."

Arthur nodded almost immediately.

"You don't have to ask."

"Good. I was thinking though…Maybe we should just go sleep this off."

He got to his feet and headed to his bedroom, motioning for Arthur to follow, much to his surprise.

Bliss, pure bliss and nothing else. Awkwardness and a little hesitation, but a perfect amount of forcefulness to balance it all out. Tenderness and lots of heat and friction, followed by some laughter and exhaustion. High off pleasure and love, not prepared for the crash in the morning.

* * *

**Hello, readers! **

**Here we have the arrival of The Beatles and our favourite Englishman! It seems that suddenly Arthur and Alfred and communicating a bit more effectively than in the past, whether it is for the better or for the worse. You decide.**

**This is my last update until I return from California in a few months. I apologise for the news, but it is essential that I go.**

**As always, I love all my readers and thank you so much for the support! **

**Please stay tuned for the continuation of this fic and my other ones; and PLEASE REVIEW! Thank you! **


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